


Apologies And Battle Scars

by Fantasticly_Anonymous



Category: Fast and the Furious Series, Hobbs & Shaw (2019)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Banter, Coping, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Family Feels, Frenemies, Gen, M/M, Permanent Injury, Possibly Pre-Slash, Slow Burn, friendship is hard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2020-08-14 07:03:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 29,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20188231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fantasticly_Anonymous/pseuds/Fantasticly_Anonymous
Summary: “Fate of the world resting on this call, or am I hanging up?” Came the less than exuberant greeting on the tail of the third ring.“Aw, come on, Shaw, I can call up a buddy once in a while, can’t I?” Hobbs asked, biting back a smile at the scoff it got him.“Well then, find a buddy and knock yourself out.”





	1. Then The Police Weren’t Involved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Question: How would things progress for our favorite globetrotting, crime stopping duo if that mid-credits ending scene had gone just a tad... differently?  


Hobbs couldn’t have thought of a better way to end his workout cool down than with a friendly little call to the most ornery of his new English frenemies. A call that happened to be timed to line up _just_ right with a little something Hobbs was calling ‘poetic justice’.  
So, with a million dollar smile quick to spread across his sweat drenched face, the man who’d just pumped more iron than most people dreamed of _touching_ in their lives hit the appropriate contact and let it ring. 

“What, need me to step in and save the world again?” Came the brusque voice that never failed to make the bodybuilder chuckle. Even from thousands of miles away. 

“Naw, just calling to check up on my bestest buddy,” Hobbs lied with a barely restrained chortle. “How’s London this time of day? Look like rain? Or just more of that depressing excuse for sunshine you poor ‘blokes’ get when Mother Nature gets bored of torturing you?”

“First, the rain cut off at five this morning and second, I’m pretty sure it’s _your_ lot Mother Nature’s got a grudge against. What with your bloody boiling heatwaves and blacktop melting, _unrelenting_ ‘sunshine’.”

“Oh, I miss this when we’re not together,” Hobbs found himself saying as he shook his head in amusement. 

“You mean, the only time I get any peace and quiet?” Shaw griped back, sounding like he might have been picking a stein off a bar.

“If that’s what you call spending time in the most depressing armed assault and robbery capital of the world, then yeah,” Hobbs said as he gave the gym floor a sidelong look.  
This was turning out even more perfect than he’d been hoping. Especially the part where he could hear Shaw mutter something unfriendly under his breath and set his mug down with a firm clunk.  
Yep. The LA based heavy hitter was going to _enjoy_ his payback. 

“But really,” Hobbs started up again, before the angry spy could put his next insult together, “I just called to check in and say hi, and now that I’ve done that I’ll-“

“Wait,” came a request Hobbs hadn’t been expecting. In a voice far more tired than it had been up until then. Tired enough that he felt compelled to do what he’d been asked and wait. Feeling just a little nonplussed while he did.  
“I, um, I wanted to apologise for, uh, for that stunt I pulled with airport security. Back there. During the mission,” said the spy who it sounded like was twisting around and doing his best to keep what he was saying from reaching any ears but Hobbs’. “It was a dick move and you won’t find me pullin’ something like that again. On account of us bein’ professionals, and all.”

“So, wait a sec,” Hobbs started with a confused shake of his head, “are you saying you’re _sorry_ about that stupid con you pulled?”

“Like I said: dick move,” Shaw assured, voice laced with an acute sort of unease. The kind any spy’s took when they were forced to tell the truth. 

“Wow. I honestly wasn’t expecting to hear that. Like, _**ever**_,” Hobbs admitted. Eyebrows furrowing deep as he came to a sudden, very mature decision and scrambled to pull out a second cellphone. Selecting the most recently messaged contact and typing up a fresh text as quickly yet quietly as he could with just his off hand. 

“Yeah, well don’t expect to hear it again,” the Brit started with considerable more bravado than he’d used a moment before. “It’s not often I muck it up that bad.”

“Huh, I suppose not. Considering you _did_ help me save the world last week,” the man juggling two phones at once admitted as he pressed send on his muted secondary communication. 

“Uh-uh, _you’re_ the one helped **me** with that one. Ask anybody,” Shaw challenged, voice radiating smugness and self-satisfaction. 

“Uh, I _already_ did and they agree that it was actually _you_ helping **me**,” Hobbs informed, attention split like only someone with considerable practice at such knew how as he waited with baited breath for a reply to his clandestine, _urgent_, text message. 

“Oh really? Who’d you ask then?” Shaw demanded to the sound of a mug leaving a hard surface, as if for a long draft. 

“My daughter. Among others,” Hobbs informed. Just a moment before the text he’d been waiting for lit up his off hand phone. Which he held up in a victorious fist pump before putting his full attention back on his ongoing conversation. 

“Nope, that’s favoritism there. Ask somebody who’s _not_ genetically predisposed to being in your corner,” Shaw said, sounding rather pleased as the unmistakable sound of someone licking foam off their stubbly upper lip came through the mic. 

“Uh-huh, well, I’ll do that when you ask someone other than your own _ego_. How’s that sound for fair?” Hobbs challenged right on back. 

“Bugger off,” said the guy obviously tired of being distracted from his pint. Ready to go back to enjoying his private indulgence in that quaint little pub all those thousands of miles away. 

“Okay, _that_ I can do,” Hobbs assured, mouth morphing into a smile as he did. “So long as you promise to enjoy the rest of that beer, my friend. You’ve earned it.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, ‘friend’,” Shaw said, sounding as if he had exactly zero plans to do anything else regardless. 

“Alright,” Hobbs acquiesced with a chuckle. Then with a quick clear of the throat, he added, “And, hey, man, thanks for the apology. It means a lot.” Something he’d never thought he’d say to this particular hard-nosed spy.

“Like I said: don’t expect to hear it again.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Hobbs assured, once again smiling at the spy’s gruff disposition. “And like I said: enjoy the beer.”

Hobbs pulled the phone from his ear as the call was terminated from the other end, slipping it back in his pocket with a thoughtful hum. 

Strangely enough, he wasn’t disappointed. Even though his carefully laid out plans for a little off-hours sting operation had been ruined. In fact, whatever had just happened instead, in a weird way, had him feeling kinda... good. 

Good enough that he held up the secondary phone he found he was still holding and reread the response he’d gotten from the high ranking Interpol contact he didn’t ‘officially’ have.

‘Copy that. High value asset police extraction called off.’

“Whew, you dodged a bullet with that one, Shaw,” Hobbs said to himself as he stowed his secret secret-business phone and turned for the locker room.  
“I mean, _that guy_, admitting he was wrong? Never thought I’d see the day,” he informed the heavy bag as he made his way out of the gym proper. Knowing even as he rubbed a towel across his _still_ sweat beaded face, that after that unexpectedly pleasant interaction, he was going to be making the next call to his caustic, foul-mouthed English connection sooner than he’d expected. 

On account of him actually _wanting_ to. 

Weird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this is my first stab at either of them, please feel free to let me know whether Hobbs or Shaw felt right! 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Hope y’all enjoyed chapter one!


	2. One Good Call Deserves Another

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hobbs’ been busy, as one might expect of someone who’s as good at his job as he is, but that’s not gonna stop him from checking in on his new buddy!  
Not for long anyway.

Hobbs loved the feeling of a good workout. The way isolated muscle groups got to really put themselves to the test, the _burn_ that set in after a good set, and of course, the fact that it kept him sharp, focused, and ready for anything. 

This particular morning’s workout was shaping up to be no exception. Except for the fact that his usually effortless concentration had been slipping since he’d walked in the gym. 

Weirder still was where his concentration kept slipping off _to_: London, of all places. Dreary, smoggy, congested, crime riddled London. But, weirdest of all, specifically to thoughts of a certain London based, almost-friend, almost-enemy he’d been meaning for days to give another ring. When he could fit it into his busy schedule, of course. 

So, deciding he deserved a mid-workout break anyhow, Hobbs pulled out his phone and put it to work connecting him to his new long-distance pen pal. 

“Fate of the world resting on this call, or am I hanging up?” Came the less than exuberant greeting on the tail of the third ring. 

“Aw, come on, Shaw, I can call up a buddy once in a while, can’t I?” Hobbs asked, biting back a smile at the scoff it got him.

“Well then, find a buddy and knock yourself out,” the sullen spy suggested, just enough bounce and breathiness in his voice to suggest he was walking somewhere. Fast too, if that slight rush of air hissing in spurts across the mic could be trusted. 

“You out for a jog?” Hobbs ventured. 

“No. Mind your own damn business,” came the reprimand that only made the US based crime fighter attune his ears harder. 

“Is that a _Xerox_?” Hobbs asked as he picked an unmistakable, papery, electronic whirring out of the growing pool of background noise. “Where **are** you? In the middle of some high-stakes government sponsored corporate espionage? Wait, are you working deep cover? Should I hang up?” Hobbs asked in quick succession, not sure what to think of what definitely sounded like a busy office environment on the other end of the line. 

“Yeah, you do that. I honestly don’t know why you called to _begin_ with,” came the snarky response that had Hobbs’ spine relaxing. Then, as the phone on the other side of the world moved to decidedly quieter surroundings, Shaw started again.   
“If you _must_ know, Hattie got the turncoat bit of my record sorted, so I’m no longer persona non grata with the buggers here at MI-6. We’re all back to working together like good little spies again.”

“Oh,” Hobbs said as he took in the news. A healthy helping of surprise pausing his brain for just a moment.   
“Well, that’s great! Good to hear you two’re working in the same sandbox officially now!” Then, after a quick smile, he found himself asking yet another question. “How’ _is_ Hattie, by the way? She ever, I don’t know, mention me or-“

A hard, “No,” hit Hobbs full in the ear. Followed closely by an equally hard, “And if you ever feel like asking that again, think hard with what microscopic brain power you’re lucky enough to still have after your obvious **decades** of steroid abuse and _then_... make a smarter life choice.”

“But-“

“Stop calling me and _definitely_ don’t call her. She’s got a lot on her plate after the whole... saving the world thing,” the spy warned. Pause that time accompanied by a quick clear of his throat. 

“But you Shaws are such thoughtful conversationalists. How could I resist?” Hobbs asked with the barest hint of a whine.

“If I hear you’ve been bothering my sister, I swear to God, Hobbs, I will come down to your stupid, overpriced, Los Angeles flat, and _personally_ take a rusty pair of pliers to-“

“Woah, I get the idea,” Hobbs assured, eyes going wide at the sudden slide into threat territory the conversation had taken. “But, if it comes to that, at least give me a few hours notice,” Hobbs said, giving the sentence his own pause before continuing, “‘cause the guest room hasn’t been used in _God_ knows how long and I don’t want-“

“I’m serious, Hobbs, Hattie’s off limits,” the ridiculous older brother warned, cutting the cop off with just a hint of a growl. “She doesn’t need the distraction. Not on top of my... suddenly taking up space on her floor here at headquarters,” the spy finished, anger petering almost completely from his voice by the end. Making the detective in Hobbs suspect that maybe, just maybe, his frenemy had been about to say something that he very much hadn’t meant to. 

Deciding pushing the issue would be a great way to get himself threatened again, Hobbs instead wiped the confusion from the tip of his tongue and did his best to continue as if he hadn’t noticed the conversational misstep.   
“So lemme get this straight, _I’m_ not allowed to call your sister because she’s busy babysitting _your_ cranky, outdated, ‘lone wolf’ ass?”

“You know what?” The affronted assassin asked from the privacy of what must have been his new office on the tea and crumpets side of the world. “I don’t need to listen to this. I’ve got things need doin’ and wasting my time threatenin’ a nosy, supersized, thickheaded, American cop ain’t on the list. So why don’t you do us both a favor and bugger off?”

“Fine then. Enjoy typing up your precious report or whatever the hell it is the big shots have you in for,” Hobbs insisted, enjoying the way his frenemy across the pond scoffed into the receiver. 

“Uh-huh, yeah, right. Enjoy tearing a rotator cuff with that three hundred pound dumbbell you love so much,” the spy sniped on back.

“Catch ya later,” Hobbs promised, amused expression stuck firm. 

“Shove it.”

And as the line went dead, the bodybuilder shook his head and switched out the phone in his hand for the _hundred fifty_ pound dumbbell he loved so much. Starting his next set with a chuckle and the sneaking suspicion that his frenemy across the pond was keeping his cards closer to the vest than Hobbs was gonna be able to get a peek at.   
Without some help, anyway. 

So, as he turned out that first ultimately satisfying hundred fifty pound pump, Hobbs decided it was most definitely time he gave the other agent Shaw a ring.  
No matter what big brother said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh, sounds like Hattie’s gonna make an appearance! Hope she has some insider information to share!  
Thanks for reading and I hope y’all enjoyed ‘Hobbs and Shaw Insulting Each Other’ chapter two! :D


	3. The Other Agent Shaw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hattie’s got the answers to the questions Hobbs doesn’t know to ask. He just needs to wrestle them out of her. Which would probably be easier if she weren’t one of the best spies on the planet.  


“Hey Hattie, how’s it goin’ over on the dark side of the globe?” 

“Must you _always_ poke fun at my home country?” Asked the second, far less gruff but no less blunt, of Hobbs’ new British frenemies. 

“**Always**. Though, it’s a _teensy_ bit more fun when you insult mine back,” Hobbs informed as he popped the top on his double sized protein shake. Figuring he could cool-down walk, drink, and have a pleasant, intel gathering conversation all at the same time. 

“That’s my brother and your thing; I’m just a _teensy_ bit mature for all that nonsense. Have actual grownup, adult type work to be done. So, if there isn’t an actual _reason_ for your call?” The posh voice asked as it sounded like the mouth it was coming from was moving slowly farther from the phone’s receiver. As if readying to end the call. 

“No, wait! I just wanted to say ‘hi’ and check in,” Hobbs informed in a rushed tone. Not sure whether the agent’s threat was more cheeky bark or serious bite. 

“Well, ‘hello’ then. And now that that's over with-“

“No, Hattie, c’mon, you’ve gotta have a few seconds to spare the guy who helped you save the world, right?” Hobbs asked, doing his best to keep the faint hint of desperation from reaching his voice. 

After a tense moment, the spy heaved a sigh into the receiver and caved.  
“Yeah, sure, why not? It’s not like I haven’t got time sensitive, code cracking to do or anything,” she said in a rather defeated tone. “What is it that you’d like to ‘catch up on’, then?” 

“You know, the basic ‘catching up’ type stuff,” Hobbs informed, one eyebrow quirking in amusement. “How are you? How’s it been since we saved the world? That kinda stuff.”

“Fine. I’ve time for a little twenty questions,” the agent said in a very ‘I would have hung up by now if you were anyone else’ tone. “When it comes to ‘how’s it been?’, the answer is: **busy**. Turns out saving the world generates _lots_ of paperwork.”

“You’re tellin’ me, sister,” Hobbs affirmed with a wry shake of his head.

“When it comes to how _I’ve_ been, there’s a short answer or a long answer. Which would you prefer?“ The agent offered in a magnanimous gesture. 

“I’ve got some time to kill,” Hobbs nudged, shaker bottle in position for a long, proteinaceous draft. 

“Long it is then,” the spy it sounded like was holed away in the privacy afforded only by the nicest of corner offices said as she leaned back in her ever so slightly squeaky office chair. “I’ve had accountants, lawyers, ambassadors, official news correspondents, and overinflated members of top brass coming in and out all hours with things for me to sign, fresh paperwork to fill, reports to attest to, orders to swear certain incidents never happened, and court dates to agree to. It’s been a nonstop, week-plus shitstorm of epic proportions which, by the way, has made allowances enough for nearly three hours of sleep a night. But all that? That’s only the tip of the iceberg,” the criminally overworked MI6 agent informed with a half hysterical chuckle. 

“I’m all ears,” Hobbs prompted when it sounded like the poor woman wasn’t going to continue on her own. Nor stop the creepy chuckling anytime soon. 

“You know,” she said to the sound of her office chair complaining as she propped booted feet on her desk. On top quite a collection of papers, if Hobbs’ ears weren’t deceiving him. “‘All that’ on top of _already_ running ourselves ragged stopping a radical terrorist organization’s plans for an apocalyptic biological holocaust,” Agent Shaw enumerated. Pausing long enough to take a well deserved breath before going on.  
“In all honesty, it could have been far worse. I mean, few aches and pains, some nasty bruising, couple’a ribs haven’t stopped giving me fits, a hand still refusing to make a proper fist, persistent tinnitus in one ear; par for the course, honestly,” she ended with what sounded like a wry smirk. “But enough about me. How ‘bout you? Got a cast needs signing?” Hattie asked in a way that somehow managed to come across equal parts genuinely interested yet scathingly condescending. 

It made Hobbs smile. Reminded him of her brother. And of the original excuse for his friendly little check in.  
“_What_? **Me**? I’m invincible,” Hobbs informed with a winning smile. “Nothing an extra strength bottle of ibuprofen, a couple good nights of sleep, and a dozen or so bear hugs from my baby girl couldn’t fix.”

“Really? No strains, sprains, or lasting physical repercussions whatsoever?” The voice of the younger Agent Shaw asked, just a tad pointedly. If Hobbs was interpreting that hard edge correctly. 

“Nope. I’m healthy as any horse you ever met. Stronger too,” Hobbs insisted as he paused to stretch one ornery hamstring. 

“Well, in that case,” the agent started to the sound of booted feet thumping as she slid them off her table and back onto her office floor, “I’d say we’re sufficiently caught up and that I have urgent business that needs my undivided-“

“Wait, Hattie-“

“No, _no_, I’m serious, Hobbs, I’ve got important things _littered_ all over my plate and this call is throwing me off schedule **massively**,” the hotshot secret agent insisted. Voice halfway between affronted and... obfuscating. A place Hobbs was absolutely not letting the conversation end. 

“Is it what I said about getting out of that Eteon nightmare without a scratch? ‘Cause I was exaggerating pretty-“

“No, it’s fine, Hobbs, it’s just...”

The pause stretched long enough that Hobbs pulled the phone from his ear to check that the long-distance connection hadn’t dropped, letting out a relieved breath when he managed to put it back just in time to catch the continuation.

“It’s Deckard,” Hattie admitted on a harsh sigh. 

“Deck? But, I just spoke with him, like, ten minutes ago,” Hobbs informed with a twinge of incredulity. Not having expected the hard-line saboteur to spill without a whole hell of a lot more wheedling on his part. “He said I should stop bugging him and give _you_ a call. He sounded fine,” the seasoned cop half-lied as he turned the corner into the deserted gym locker room. 

“Yes, that’s what he’d want you to think,” said the smooth face with a hand scrubbing across it, sounding almost as if it was trying to stave off a building headache. 

“What do you mean, Hatt? What’s up with that brother of yours?” Hobbs asked flat out. Not up for subtlety now that the woman had practically out and confirmed what he’d secretly called to find out. 

“It’s his...” She started. Pause stretching almost as long the second time as the first. “He’s been depressed. Since we got back. Even through the buggers here at MI6 finally pulling they’re heads out their asses and taking him back. Then again,” she said with a scoff, “how could they justify _not_ reinstating him after we stopped the populations of the world melting from the inside out?”

“Um,” Hobbs offered, not sure whether she actually wanted an answer to that particular question. Thankful when the spy simply gave another scoff and went on. 

“Sure, I mean, I’ll be the first to admit he and I haven’t been close for a few years —_more_ than a few, really— but I’ve never known Decks to be anything but his reckless, take no prisoners, shove your advice back down your throat, nothing and no one can stop me self and... he’s not doing that now,” Hattie informed, finishing with a short sigh. This one with an exhausted ring to it. 

“I wouldn’t let it get you down, Hattie,” Hobbs started, voice confident as well as comforting. “I’ll bet Deck’s more tired than anything. After all, when you live, work, and breathe world ending disasters, you’re bound to get stuck in a funk at some point,” he suggested, quirking a smile when it at least succeeded in getting a chuckle out of the strung out agent on the other end of the line.  
“Who knows? Man might just need a little something to cheer him up,” the cop added, hoping the reassurance reassured. 

“You may be on to something there,” the spy conceded with a voice devoid of disdain. “I think I’ll start by taking him out for dinner tonight. Man _needs_ to get out of the house once in a while.”

“Heh, wait- What do you mean ‘once in a while’?” Hobbs asked, chuckle sticking in his throat when he realized the implication. “You mean Deck’s _depressed_ depressed? I thought we were talkin’ ‘kinda mopey’ depressed.”

“Oh, and would you look at that? We’ve run out of time,” Hattie announced, the high overtone making Hobbs think she was playing at condescending. “Couldn’t tell you any more anyway, I’m afraid. Sister-brother confidentiality and all that,” she added in a tone devoid any hint of an apology. “If you need details, I suggest you give my brother a call. Bye.”

And the line went dead just as Hobbs was finally getting somewhere with the agent he was absolutely calling right back. 

Though, he thought as his finger paused to hover over the redial icon, considering the older Shaw hadn’t been exaggerating about how busy his sister was, Hobbs wasn’t sure he wanted to chance the wrath of _two_ vengeful, extremely deadly MI6 agents coming down on him over a little too much call time.  
Yeah, no, he decided as he instead slipped the phone in his pocket, Hattie wasn’t getting a second call unless the fate of the world somehow found a way to rest on it. 

Still, he thought as he chugged the last of his protein shake, grabbed up his gym bag, and slung it over one shoulder’s worth of bulging, very much in need of a shower, muscles, he was getting to the bottom of this if he had to fly all the way out to sad, soppy, soot covered London and confront the English spy sibling duo himself. 

But maybe he’d take the woman’s advice and try the ‘calling Agent Shaw’s brother’ thing before ruining his entire week like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, at least Hobbs _knows_ something’s afoot after that evasive, begrudging conversation. Now all he needs to do is find out what.  
Hope Hattie felt right and that everyone enjoyed the third installment of ‘Is This Entire Thing Gonna Take Place Over The Phone?’ :D


	4. Mistakes In Message Making

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hobbs is going to get to the bottom of this if he has to track down and interrogate Shaw himself.  
That is, of course, if calling doesn’t work.

“You shouldn’t have this number, but since you do, might as well leave a message after the beep. Though, bear in mind, if I don’t like what I hear, I will hunt you down and gut you like a fish. Cheers.”

*Beep*

“Yo, Deck-man, just calling to check in. Again. Hey, I know _I’m_ still feelin’ the pain from that knock-down-drag-out with Black Superman back there and... I was thinking that maybe we could commiserate over a video call. Y’know: You show me yours and I’ll show you mine, kinda deal?”

*Beep*

“Hi, Hobbs again. Uh, your machine cut me off and I realized that last part probably came off a tad... wrong, and I wanted to clarify that what I _meant_ was: We could compare bruises and- and contusions and maybe stitches too. If you got any, of course.  
“Anyway, give me a call back when-“

*Beep*

“Yeah, sorry, it cut me off again. So... yeah, call me back when you can. I’ve always got my phone on me and I don’t mind the time difference. I’m a light sleeper. Anyway, call me... buddy.”

Hobbs rubbed his face and released an entire lungful on a deep sigh.  
Things were getting weird. Like, what the hell kind of message chain was that? The kind a middle schooler using the home phone for the first time in their life leaves their crush who they’ve only ever spoken to twice. 

Yep. It was official. Luke Hobbs sounded like a clueless, prepubescent tween.  
Great. 

At least he’d held off calling for a few hours. After all, he wanted to get to the bottom of this ‘he’s been depressed’ conundrum, not annoy Shaw so bad he never answered his phone again. 

So, with another sigh and a fair amount of faith that he’d get the Brit on the line one way or another, Hobbs went back to active waiting mode and did his best to forget the last few humiliating minutes. 

An approximate hour later found the mountain of a man scrambling for the furiously vibrating phone in his pocket.  
“Yes?” Hobbs answered halfway through the first ring. With far more trepidation than he’d meant to. 

“Saw I missed your call. Three times. What’s up?” 

Thankful that Shaw’s voice sounded more ‘is there a situation’ than anything else, Hobbs closed his eyes for a moment and started straight in on the meat of the matter.  
“You didn’t hear my messages?”

“No, figured if it was something world ending, might as well hear the story straight from the horse’s ass,” Shaw explained. The insult bringing a genuine smile to Hobbs’ worried face. 

“Okay, well, maybe just delete them.”

“Situation under control then? Information now classified?” Shaw asked, tone all business and sharp lines and seriousness. 

“Uh, something like that,” Hobbs lied, tone pretty much the opposite. 

“Alright. Nice to hear the unstoppable Luke Hobbs didn’t screw everything up. For once,” Shaw said as the sound of a printer working overtime filtered over the microphone and into Hobbs’ ear. 

“You at headquarters? _Still_? Man, they really got you on a short leash,” Hobbs observed with a chuckle. “Must be enjoying bringing the invincible Deckard Shaw to heel with a snap of their-“

And the line went dead. No warning and no goodbye. Not even static. 

Hobbs selected the appropriate contact and put the phone back to his head, counting more rings than was usually necessary before a familiar voice answered with a jarringly hostile, “Fuck off.”

“Don’t get your panties in a twist,” Hobbs said in a tone he hoped hit the ‘chiding yet apologetic’ mark he’d been aiming for. “Just, didn’t expect to hear you in the office so much.”

“Right, and I’ll bet _you’re_ never in the office, eh, bigshot?” The spy said in a dismissive tone. 

“Hey, everybody answers to _someone_,” Hobbs admitted to thoughts of the mountain of paperwork he’d been given to fill out. After everything. “But you know that already, so what’s _really_ eating at ya? Car break down?” 

“**Never**,” came exactly the heated reply Hobbs had been expecting. 

“Lack of rain putting a dent in your precious city’s horrible weather reputation?”

“I’ll have you know it’s raining _now_ and I **love** it. So you run off like a good little West Coast meathead, enjoy your pustulous sunburn, and-“ 

“Right, right, ‘bugger off’,” the cop said in a way that was sure to rankle. “Seriously, Shaw, what’s eatin’ ya? I really wanna know,” Hobbs insisted as he readjusted his grip on his phone. 

“...”

“I won’t post about it on the dark web,” Hobbs added in his most annoying sing-song. The silence having signaled to the detective that the spy was about ready to crack. 

“Bloody- You know what? Fine. If it’ll get you the hell off my back,” Shaw bit out, sounding like he was double checking no one else could possibly overhear.  
“...It’s my heart.”

“_What_? What’re you talking about? You get dumped or something?” Hobbs asked, not ready to believe that any old breakup could send a trained spy into the kind of serious slump the one the younger Agent Shaw had reported her brother having fallen into. 

“No you overgrown _tit_, it’s my bleedin’ **heart**. My ticker; the thing in my chest that’s _supposed_ to keep me alive?” The spy informed with a desperate sort of growl. “And if you’re going to be making bloody _jokes_ about it-“

“No, God, Deck, I thought we were talkin’ a ‘_matter of the heart_’,” Hobbs insisted as his eyes went wide. “Heart disease is serious shit, my friend. You won’t hear me jokin’ ‘bout that.”

“Well, bully for me,” Shaw deadpanned, sounding just about done with the conversation. 

“No, Deck, seriously,” Hobbs assured, stomach sinking as the full implications started to settle in. “How long?” 

“‘How long’ _what_? Jesus Christ, Hobbs, I’m not _dying_.”

“No, I mean, how long have you known? How bad is it?”

“...Bad enough they have me riding a desk. For the ‘foreseeable future’,” said Shaw, sounding like he was repeating something he’d had parroted to him ad nauseam. 

“How’d you find out?” Hobbs tried, toeing the line between concerned and really, _really_ concerned. 

There was a stretch of nothing but a fainter than faint hint of busy office noises before the sound of Shaw dragging a hand down an even scruffier than usual face came through the mic. Followed by a sigh so heavy, Hobbs practically felt it in his own chest.  
“Coupla day’s after we got back from saving the world,” the spy finally said. Worrying Hobbs with the uncharacteristically nonconfrontational way he said it. “Actually felt it leading up to then, but I passed it off as just part of the package: coupla cracks in the old rib cage, another tear in the rebuilt ACL, few dislocated fingers, and a wonky beat every now and then.”

“‘Wonky’? Leading up to what?” Hobbs asked, not liking where it sounded like that was going. 

“Arrhythmia,” Shaw said, trying for casual but not able to keep the weight of the situation from his voice. “Bad enough it landed me in hospital.”

“You had a heart attack?” Hobbs demanded, his own heart beginning to pound. “You had a mother flippin’ _heart attack_ and you didn’t **tell** me? How many times have I called your sorry ass the past-“

“_Arrhythmia_ and no. We’re not friends, I don’t owe you anything, and you bloody well know it,” the spy insisted, sounding closer to hanging up than he had since he’d picked back up. 

“Deck, I’ve been calling to see how you’re doing, not make fun of a _recent_ medical emergency. I’m not one hundred percent a dick, man,” Hobbs argued, voice coming out closer to calm than he’d expected. 

“Could’ve fooled me,” the spy griped, cantankerous as always. 

“Hey, no, seriously, what the hell happened, man?” The cop asked, trying to keep the thread of the conversation. “Was it gradual? Is it stress?”

“Yeah, the stress of my ratcheting blood pressure every time you ruin my day with your nosy ass,” came the snide sidestep. 

“C’mon, really, Deck, how’d it happen?” Hobbs asked, electing to ignore that last jab in favor of staying on track. 

“None of your business,” the Brit said in a clipped fashion. “Besides, don’t you have an elephant to go bench press? Or a couple dozen raw eggs to guzzle?”

“Not gonna tell me? Fine. I’ll just have to guess then,” Hobbs informed, voice taking on a mischievous timber. “Did it by chance involve an eight pound bag of pure black tar Mexican heroin? Or cocaine, if that’s what the kids are into these days? Or maybe it happened in the middle of a high speed pursuit, car spinning out going 90 in the middle of central London during rush-“

“No you utter- You wanna know how it happened? One minute I was eatin’ a caprice salad with my baby sister and the next I was on the floor clutching at my stalled ticker. _That’s_ how it bloody well happened. No bad guys or illegal drugs or car chases. Just a boring old family lunch date ended by my useless heart stuttering long enough I bloody well passed out. Hattie pumping my chest like _her_ life depended on it; screaming in my face that I better not stroke out before the medics got there,” Shaw informed, getting more worked up as he went but somehow managing to keep the volume barely over conversational. 

“Shaw?” Hobbs asked when the spy didn’t say more. Feeling more anxious than he’d have liked to admit. 

“She’s taking me to dinner tonight,” Shaw practically whispered into the receiver. “Says I ‘don’t get out of the house enough’. Would you believe that? _Me_, a shut-in?”

“I was under the impression that you already were one,” Hobbs jabbed, small smile breaking through at the unhappy scoff it got him. 

“The fact I don’t go out ‘drinking with the boys’ every other Thursday doesn’t make me an antisocial misanthrope,” the Brit insisted. 

“Hey, buddy, your words, not mine,” Hobbs said, chuckle stuck safe somewhere deep in his chest. 

“Oi, peabrain, like I told you earlier: Stop calling.”

“Yeah, not happening,” Hobbs informed chuckle almost making it out into the open that time. The spy on the other end thankfully terminating the call right before it finally did. 

The laughs cut themselves off though when Hobbs remembered the upshot of the conversation and its implications. 

His frenemy was sick. His other frenemy was _worrying_ herself sick while up to her ears in paperwork and legal mumbo jumbo which Hobbs was suddenly seventy five percent confident was her purposefully taking the brunt of the fire and fallout from both her and her brother’s involvement in that whole cataclysmic Eteon mess. In what was probably an extremely effective stab at mitigating the stress of the near death experience it sounded like she’d helped him survive. 

Hobbs shook his head at the sad, sad state of affairs.  
The Shaw siblings were in dire straights; up shits creek without so much as a rusty spoon for a paddle; deep down in the dumps and in need of some _serious_ cheering-

And with that thought, Hobbs reactivated his sleeping phone screen and selected a new contact, a smile creeping onto his face as the first ring sounded. 

“Go for Dinkley,” answered an unnaturally low voice. Bouncing around faintly as if the person it came from was walled in exclusively by metal and tiled surfaces. 

“Hey, hate to do this to you again, Air Marshal, but I’m jonesing for another first class ride: Destination, London. The sooner the better,” Hobbs informed, confident that he could count on the bathroom based badass. 

“Redeye alright?”

“Preferable, actually.”

“Then I got you, brother. Pack your bag, because this bird is takin’ off in T minus one hour, baby!”

Smile wider as he was hung up on than when the call’d connected, the LA cop allowed himself a celebratory fist pump before slipping his phone into its pocket. 

The Shaw siblings were getting a well-deserved surprise visit from a well-wishing, late to the party American frenemy.  
Whether the older half of the dynamic duo liked it or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who’s finally meeting face to face? Yep, these two hopeless dorks! XD  
Also: Hope the boys still sounded right through the actually _talking_ for once in their whole gosh darned lives bit.  
Also, also: Thanks for reading! ❤️


	5. The Uninvited Guest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hobbs showing up unannounced? How’s Shaw gonna take that? Hopefully not with a right hook!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has gotten way more hits, kudos, and love than I’d ever expected and I just wanted to take a second to say Thank You! Thanks To Everyone! Y’all are the greatest! ❤️

The personal leave wasn’t all that hard to line up, considering Hobbs had just saved the world for the umpteenth time and all.  
Having someone around to watch Sam also wasn’t a tough thing to figure out, considering he often needed to take work related, multiple day trips on relatively short notice as it was.  
And Aunt Lisa was an honest to God _saint_. 

Even booking the red eye flight had been a relative breeze, on account of his very close friend, Air Marshal Dinkley, hooking him up with an extremely affordable nonstop with plenty of first class legroom to top it off. 

Nope. Turned out the only hard thing about the whole ‘getting to London’ thing was the plane ride itself. And even then, only by the merit of its intrinsic length.  
Over ten hours in the air was never fun, and when a friend was sick, ten hours in the air was enough to make you wanna grab a chute and try your luck with the nearest geese formation. 

About the time the commercial jet airliner’d crossed the Eastern seaboard, Hobbs’ better judgment had him shooting the younger Agent Shaw a text informing her of his ‘surprise’ visit. 

‘About Time.’ Read the brief, _immediate_ response. To which, Hobbs quirked an eyebrow in confusion.  
Then, only a couple of seconds later, almost as if it’d been waiting in the wings, came a strangely specific description of where her brother lived.  
‘He’ll be there.’ Read text number three. 

All of which led Hobbs to think that maybe him making the trip hadn’t been as much a surprise as he’d thought. At least, not where Hattie was concerned. 

With a sinking feeling, the detective had to consider the possibility that this whole trip hadn’t been **completely** his own original idea and that maybe, just maybe, the saboteur had in fact used her MI6 spy training to somehow plant the idea deep in his subconscious sometime during their call. 

Damn, thought Hobbs as he ignored the ominous shiver running down his spine, the woman was good. 

Several restless hours later, impossible as it felt, the flight arrived right on time and before Hobbs knew it, he was hailing a cab and making for the older Agent Shaw’s _extremely_ unlisted abode. Thankful that the protective younger sister had saved him the headache of figuring it out on his own. 

Knowing it was only polite when visiting someone who made their living being invisible, Hobbs decided to take the long way to his frenemy’s place. Which all started with asking the taxi to pull over in front of a random coffee shop, where he paid for the ride, hopped out, and allowed the cab to be taken by the next eager beaver before going inside. Where he waited a good ten minutes, sipping on a surprisingly halfway to decent coffee and reading some literature they had laying around, before ducking out a side entrance, walking two blocks through a fairly secluded breezeway, and hailing a fresh cab.

That one he had drive him right on up to ‘his destination’, where he watched it drive off for its next fare before walking yet another few, dreary, deserted, definitely-not-being-followed blocks.  
At the end of which, he found himself stood before a staunch, nondescript, solitary gray door set into a similarly undecorated front wall which didn’t appear to even have a street number associated with it. 

Yeah, no doubt about it. Shaw lived there all right. 

Coming to a stop right in front of that most morose of doors, Hobbs chose to go with an old-fashioned knock before resorting to any more _advanced_ techniques for getting inside a house.  
To the cop’s amusement, the door was opened after only the one try. 

That was when he laid eyes on Deckard Shaw for the first time.  
Or what _felt_ like the first time, anyway. On account of the guy looking barely similar to how he had any other time Hobbs had seen him. 

He looked hollowed out; gaunt. Almost like he hadn’t eaten or slept right since they’d said goodbye on Samoa.  
Actually, scratch that, Hobbs thought as the surprise of it wore off, those dark circles under the guy’s eyes were pushing it straight over into outright ghoulish.  
Of course, the rumpled college sweatshirt, PJ bottoms, no shoes combo wasn’t doing him any favors, but the assessment still stood. 

“You look like shit.” Perhaps not the most empathetic opener, but it’s what his mouth decided on, so Hobbs plastered on an assessing look and ran with it. 

“Fuck off,” the spy spat as he moved to slam the door in the cop’s face. 

“No, seriously, it’s _bad_. Worse than I thought,” Hobbs insisted as he shoved both an arm and a boot into the way of the fast shutting door. Glad when the rejection turned out more of a halfhearted gesture and not one intended to maim. 

“Well excuse me for not putting my face on,“ said Shaw as he took a step back from the reopened door. And the mountain walking through it. 

“What, foundation too much work?” Hobbs asked, fighting to keep his voice chiding when halfway through, adjusted to the inside lighting, his eyes caught on a patch of livid bruising on one side of Shaw’s head.  
It looked like it hurt. 

“Oi, don't like me fresh faced, don’t bloody well come round unannounced,” Shaw said, just the barest hint of heat to the words. 

“Wait, you’re serious? You mean, you _actually_ wear makeup for those kind of things?” Hobbs asked, disbelief painted all over his face as he shut the door behind himself. 

“All part of the job description when the best thing sticking out’ll get you is dead,” Shaw said with a stiff shrug. One that just so happened to draw attention to the simple, utilitarian sling the guy was wearing. Left arm resting snug against himself as it hung there, suspended by nylon and velcro and seven different kinds of wrong. 

“What’s with the hardware, man? Neighborhood bully work you over for your lunch money?” Hobbs asked as he dropped his day bag just off to one side. 

“Hell’re you talkin’ about?” Shaw demanded as he brushed past Hobbs to lock the deadbolt. “_This_ was Brixton hitting me dead on with a three hundred pound canon barrel whilst _you_ laid in the mud, counting stars from-“

“Right, right, I remember that now,” Hobbs said, eyebrows drawing together as he avoided being shoulder checked by the ornery Britt making his way back through his foyer and off towards what was probably a dining area. Tacitly inviting his guest further into his most secret of haunts. 

“Wow,” Hobbs said as surprise had him paused in the kitchen entrance. “Know what? I take it back,” he informed a Shaw who was glancing back at him as he made his way for a teakettle that was just beginning to whistle. “_This place_ looks like shit.” 

“I been busy,” came the half mumbled half growled response as the spy poured the freshly boiled water into a waiting mug. Making no offer to do the same for his uninvited guest. 

“Yeah, uh, ‘busy’ doesn’t get you **this** kind of mess,” Hobbs observed as he ambled his way over towards the sink, which he was repulsed, though hardly surprised, to find was clogged with all manner of grime covered cooking implement and what was probably every piece of dish ware the Brit owned. Except for that oversized mug the guy was currently steeping something in, of course. 

“I got a bum arm,” Shaw said, making his point fairly well, whether he meant to or not, taking far longer than it should have to reach up and into a cabinet for a plastic bear full of golden clover honey. “Besides, where do you get off tellin’ me how I should run _my_ house?”

“Fine. Sure. Good point. Your house; not mine.” Hobbs acknowledged with a good few semi-serious nods. “But why not hire a maid, or a cleaning service, or a butler even? Considering you’re not strapped for cash?” The cop asked, genuinely curious. 

“Spy. Trust no one. Besides, I’ve gone undercover; I _know_ what goes on in those estates and castles and let me tell you, **never** trust the buggers in the white gloves. Might look like they keep those hands clean, but they’re the filthiest of ‘em all,” the Brit informed, swirling his drink in an effort to mix in the honey he’d just squirted into his mug. No doubt out of clean spoons. 

“Well, mind if _I_,” Hobbs paused as he surveyed the practically biohazardous mess of his surroundings, “gave cleaning a shot?”

“Knock yourself out,” Shaw said with a skeptical snort as he took a seat at one of his kitchen island stools. 

Hobbs wasted no time putting his full attention on rooting around in the lower cabinets for any help he could find, not at all interested in touching that ‘sink’ without at least a pair of gloves on and some disinfectant at the ready.  
Ignoring the odd derisive snort from behind, it didn’t take the detective too many tries to find exactly what he needed and before long he was scrubbing at days worth of caked on filth with a scrub brush, sponge combo that was doing wonders to the poor, crusty, ceramic eat-ware. All while ignoring the sounds of an ungrateful spy sipping on his cup of tea, content to not lift a finger. Nor even _offer_ to. 

“Y’know,” Hobbs glanced back at the opener, “maybe I _should_ hire a cleaner,” Shaw said from where he was indeed sipping lazily at a lightly steaming cup. 

“Yeah? Why the change of heart?” Hobbs asked from where he was bent over the sink, giving an especially grimy skillet a good scrubbing. Pausing that in favor of hearing the response. 

“‘Cause watching somebody else do the dirty work for once’s turnin’ out just a hair satisfying,” the scruffy Brit said, before obscuring his face with another well timed sip. 

“Uh-huh, laugh it up, chucklehead,” Hobbs said with a Shaw directed shake of a wet sponge. “But next time you come visit, I’ll have you doing _my_ dishes!”

“What’s this ‘next time’ tripe? I’ve never _seen_ your place and I’d bloody well like to keep it that way,” the man in the old sweatshirt said, right before draining the last of his tea and shoving off from his island table. 

“Hey! Least you could do is bring that _here_!” Hobbs insisted, considering throwing the now rather crusty sponge at the retreating spy with the ‘definitely not doing that’ face. 

“Oh, y’know, I think there’s some week old takeaway in the fridge needs throwing out,” Shaw called over his shoulder as he turned to saunter off towards what must have been some sort of den. “Right, the rubbish too. Bin’s gettin’ sorta ripe, last few days.”

“Prima donna!” Hobbs called after the ungrateful back as it disappeared around the corner. Chuckling though when he realized that Shaw looked better already. What with having somebody to boss around and generally be an ass to instead of just moping alone. Like Hattie’d insinuated he’d been doing a lot of lately. 

Yeah, visiting had absolutely been the right call, Hobbs decided as he collected the used cup from the almost passably clean island top. Making a note to scrub that when he was done with the stovetop. _After_ he finished with the horrifyingly unhygienic pile of cookware and dirty dishes, of course.


	6. Nobody Likes You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, Shaw _not_ trying to smear the walls with his unannounced drop in? Sounds like Hobbs’ visit is off to a pretty good start.

It was longer than Hobbs would have liked, but sooner than he would have thought, till he got all the refuse and spoiled things out of the fridge and kitchen trash can and into a couple doubled up garbage bags. Which he decided, for the time being, to leave where he’d finished tying them shut. Considering he had no idea where stuff got thrown away around there. 

Figuring he better ask Shaw about the best place to leave the maggot bait, the man who’d barely broken a sweat shining up what was now obviously quite a nice kitchen gave his hands a quick wash and took off in the direction the spy had vanished half a scrub session earlier. 

Following what turned out to be a relatively darkened hallway to its end, Hobbs ducked through a low doorway, and found himself blinking against an unexpected shaft of sunlight. Adjusting his eyes with a few good blinks, the unflappable LA cop felt himself suck in a breath at the sight that materialized before him. 

Like a miniature of the meditative courtyards cloistered in the Buddhist temples of Japan, protected by unobtrusive walls of glass, stood one of the most thoughtfully designed zen gardens Hobbs had ever seen.  
A cherry tree in full bloom off to one side offering a vibrant splash of color to what was otherwise a scene composed of muted greens and stone grays. All arranged in a way that invited quiet contemplation. 

Picking out the man he was looking for in the shadow of that impressive, mature cherry, the visitor made his presence known with a quick clear of the throat.  
“I didn’t know this was back here,” Hobbs said, unable to keep the tinge of awe from his voice as he wiped the last reminders of the soapy water from his hands. 

“Probably because you’ve never _been_ here before,” Shaw reminded from where he was seated. Not bothering with a greeting. 

“Anata no sakura wa utsukushi desu,” Hobbs said with a smile, admiring the tree’s pink blossoms as he started off on the winding path that led from the doorway to the center of the small but truly impressive indoor garden. 

“Show-off,” Hobbs thought he heard as he got close enough to see that Shaw was not seated directly on the ground, but on a perfectly square tatami matted platform. Body arranged in an iconic position that just plain looked out of place on a spy he’d seen with his own two eyes hamstring people just for looking at him wrong. 

“Are you _meditating_?” Hobbs asked, unable to keep the incredulity from his question. 

“Well I’m bloody well not _now_, am I?” Accused the disgruntled spy as he opened his eyes to glare up at his uninvited visitor. 

“Oops. Well, at least you’re kitchen’s clean,” Hobbs pointed out, moving closer and picking out a place to plant his keister. 

“Yeah, I’d’ve gotten around to it eventually,” Shaw informed in a distinctly brush-off-ish sort of way. Closing his eyes again once the considerably larger spy had settled himself on the Japanese mat floor close by. 

“Uh-huh, I’m sure you would have,” Hobbs remarked with a wry tilt to his head. Taking a moment to study the rare look of... equanimity, maybe, on the Brit’s face. “But uh, remind me, was that gonna happen before or _after_ the trash grew mushrooms?”

“Oi, show some respect, and shut it. This ain’t a bloody park,” the meditator warned, forehead wrinkling in annoyance. 

“Yeah, because sane people don’t practice their esoteric religions in public,” the cop from one of the most diversified cities in the world chided with a wry smirk. 

“Kono basho o hanarete, bugai-sha!” The spy spat with a sharp half-snarl. Surprising Hobbs when he shoved himself up from his place on the tatami mat and made to vacate the garden. 

“Whoa, ‘outsider’? After all we’ve been through together? That’s harsh, man,”Hobbs said as he pulled himself to a stand and made to follow his unhappy friend.  
“Amazing accent by the way,” he tacked on as Shaw reached the end of his garden path. 

“Leave me alone, you-“

“‘Absolute wanker’? Heard it before,” Hobbs informed as he hurried through the doorway and after the barely dressed guy he was still surprised _owned_ pajamas. If you could even call them that. 

“Well jolly good for you. Betcha get called that quite a lot,” Shaw sneered as he continued on through the darkened hall and into the kitchen. 

“Eh, just by you,” Hobbs refuted as his boots hit linoleum, before realizing he needed to amend the statement. “And maybe Hattie, if I catch her in the right-“

There was a harsh whisper of fabric against air and that was Hobbs’ only warning before Shaw was spun around and **coming** for him. 

Thankfully the fist to the face was an easy dodge, telegraphed as it had been, but the surprise knee to the thigh took a little more hustle to get out the way of than felt comfortable. Especially when he realized it had probably been aimed a little closer to center than he’d thought. 

“Aw, c’mon, Deck, you know what I mean!” Hobbs defended as he ducked back and away from a second, more serious try for his face. That one whiffing by a little too close for comfort. 

“Stop talking about my sister like you know her!” The spy who looked ready to vibrate out his skin demanded from his rankled hunch just barely out of the taller man’s reach. 

“But, Deck, I _do_ know her,” the cop insisted, hands out and up in a placating posture. “We saved the world together; the _three_ of us did that and we shared contact information after and now we call each other and-“

“No, Luke, _we_ don't call each other; **you** call _us_. Because you can’t believe there are people out there who would appreciate you **not** poking your nose in every nook and cranny it doesn’t belong!”

The statement had Hobbs stopping in his mental tracks, a frown tipping his mouth the smallest bit upside down.  
“Did you just call me ‘Luke’?”

“Shut it! Nobody likes you!” The spy who topped out a good six inches below his guest all but shouted. Before lunging into a brutal leg sweep which Hobbs was forced to back double time to avoid. Cursing his inattention when he got himself a kidney full of kitchen island for his troubles. 

Then, before he could form a strategy for bringing the one sided fight to a peaceful resolution, the cop found himself spinning away from a palm thrust obviously aimed for somewhere in the ‘jaw’ area. Followed up _quick_ by a bare-knuckled jab at the sensitive area around his floating ribs. One he almost lost his balance flinging himself out of reach of. 

Regaining his equilibrium, Hobbs gave the even paler than usual brawler a privately impressed stare. Getting a genuine glare for his efforts.  
How the little guy was able to conjure up every ounce of his usual intimidation factor looking like Casper’s sickly, less bulked up brother, down an arm and sans _shoes_, of all things, was a testament to the spy’s confidence in his own ability to handle himself in a tussle. No matter the circumstances. Nor how high the deck was stacked against him.

Figuring it was about time he employed some of those de-escalation techniques they taught back in the training academy, Hobbs raised his hands back up into that ‘I don’t want any trouble’ pose and spoke his next words in his least provocative voice.  
“Deck, you _know_ I’m not secretly here to kick your ass while you’re out of commission, right?”

“I’ll show _you_ ‘out of commission’!”

Realizing that had probably been the wrong thing to say, the detective with over a decade on the job experience hoped that the world infamous **assassin** once again coming straight for him didn’t have a knife stashed somewhere on his extremely angry person. 

After several more far too close calls wherein — surprisingly— nothing pointier than the man’s fingernails made an appearance, Hobbs found himself quickly being backed into a corner, both figuratively and literally. 

Avoiding injury becoming more and more difficult as the kitchen’s boundaries came closer, Hobbs was eventually forced to either take control of the situation or suffer a bloody nose. At _minimum_.  
So, with a quick prayer that news of this particular detail would never reach Hattie’s ears, the man with every conceivable advantage grabbed himself a handful of enraged assassin, maneuvered him up flush against the closest stable surface, and pushed in as tight as he dared. 

“Now,” he started as he neatly avoided getting his shin raked by a blind, behind the back, barefooted heel, “are we headed for timeout, or are you about ready to quit it with the temper tantrum?”

“Fuck. Off.” Insisted the guy whose chest Hobbs could feel _working_ for a fresh breath, pinned as it was between the unyielding stainless steel of the refrigerator and the rock hard forearm doing the pinning. 

“Uh-uh, that’s ‘_please_ fuck off’ to-“

And suddenly, even having resisted the urge to ease up on the guy, the cop was left with nothing to show for his efforts but a fistful of empty sling. Not a trace of spy within reach. 

“Way I figure it,” Shaw growled from his newly liberated position, impossibly reversing the roles before his visitor could even turn around; pinning the considerably larger man to the fridge door with far more force than would have been appreciated, “if you wanted to annoy me to death, you could’a done it over the phone. From the comfort of your sunny Los Angeles home. So I’m gonna ask **once**: What’re you _really_ doing here?” 

“Seriously?” Hobbs started, getting his arms between himself and the brushed chrome appliance well enough to shove himself off and away from it. Following that up with a spinning swipe for that bony elbow still digging stubbornly into his spine. An elbow which was gone too fast for his hand to so much as brush. 

So, once again free, Hobbs got the combatant back in his line of sight and squared his shoulders before restarting.  
“Seriously? You _seriously_ don’t know why I’m here?”

A stiff shrug the only thing the spy had to offer from where he was catching his breath a good double arm’s length away. 

“Really? You have **no** idea what I’m doing here?” Hobbs demanded, doing his best to keep his posture from betraying his disappointment at the suggestion. 

“I dunno, Hobbs, you Americans are an unpredictable lot; always starting things you don’t know how to finish. Like this scuffle, for example,” Shaw said with an offhanded gesture between the two of them. 

“_I_ started- _You’re_ the one who started this toe to toe, amigo. All I came here for was a friendly visit; to check on my **bud**. And tell the truth? I’m gettin’ full-on sick and tired of being forced on my back foot like some sort of home invader,” Hobbs informed with a shift of his body weight into a more forward distribution. Finally letting his instincts take over as his arms came up into something approximating a boxer’s stance. 

“Yeah? Well I say **bring** it, so I can give that stupid, overgrown Boy Scout face of yours something _worth_ crying-“ 

Then Shaw, the unstoppable force to Hobbs’ immovable object, did something completely unexpected and just... stopped. Mid threat. Eyes no longer stuck in their ever present, jaundiced squint, but wide and going wider the longer he stood there, suddenly, inexplicably transformed into a motionless, unflattering effigy of his normal self. 

Staring right back into those eyes that no longer seemed to be seeing him, Hobbs’ own pair widened in concern when he a caught a glint of something completely unexpected in his frenemy’s: fear.  
Then, searching his opponent for what could possibly be wrong, the detective realized with a sinking feeling that the guy was too still to even be _breathing_. 

“Oh my God, it’s happening again, isn’t it?” Hobbs asked, hands lowering to more of an ‘is there anything I can do’ as his legs began moving him forward. Stopping only once he was close as they could get him without actually touching the **stock still** spy. Then, when there was no outward reaction from the scarecrow of a man, the cop slipped his phone out of its pocket and activated the screen.  
“Am I calling an ambulance or a sister?” He demanded, knowing this arrhythmia thing could be just as serious as a heart attack. 

It took another few long, tense seconds, but when Shaw finally moved again, it was to draw in a deep lungful and shake his head. Both actions jerkier than Hobbs was used to seeing on the guy. 

“I’m calling _someone_, Deck. Who’s it gonna be?” Hobbs insisted, jaw tensing in concern when Shaw’s next move was simply bringing a hand up to rub at his own chest. Right about where a heart rested.  
“Deck? Are the paramedics making a house call or is your sister getting a big brother health update?” He prompted when nothing else happened. 

“Bugger off,” came the halfhearted, _late_ reply. A second before the entire, severely underdressed secret agent seemed to sag in on himself and turned to slouch the rest of his way out of the kitchen. Fight completely forgotten. 

“Alright then, dealer’s choice,” Hobbs announced as he selected the younger Agent Shaw’s contact. Pausing though as he watched the stubborn Brit pad away on legs that visibly shook. Deciding instead that typing a quick text might be more... tactful. 

‘Your brother froze up. Seems okay but looks beat. Suggestions?’  
He spent the ensuing wait craning to see where the brother in question had shambled off to. Looking down the instant his phone gave a discrete buzz. 

‘Put him to bed. And make sure he takes his meds.’

“Meds?” Hobbs whispered to himself as he sent back the imogi of a thumbs up. Keeping his screen on when it indicated another message was being composed. 

‘I’m coming over. Later. He better not be dead when I get there.’

“Tall order, sister. Tall order,” Hobbs said to himself as he stowed the phone and started off after the one he’d made this whole crazy trip in hopes of helping out. Not sure he’d actually succeeded so far, but hopeful his luck would be taking a turn for the better. Any minute now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, scratch that, things are definitely not going well for the two right now. At least the Brit has an American bodybuilding cop around to wash his dirty dishes for him! XD
> 
> Also: While watching Hobbs And Shaw, I’m pretty sure I saw a Sakura tree in full bloom somewhere in or on the property in a scene where Shaw appeared to be leaving his house. So I decided he had a Japanese zen garden. :D
> 
> Also-also: The Japanese translates roughly to, “Your Cherry is beautiful,” for Hobbs, and, “Leave this place, outsider!” for Shaw.


	7. Shaw Gets Medicated; Hobbs Gets Educated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wonder how Hobbs is gonna feel after having seen the extent of his frenemy’s condition with his own eyes?  
Wonder how Shaw is gonna feel about the same?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long hiatus! Hope y’all enjoy the new chapter!

“Deck?” Hobbs asked as he came through to a medium sized living room. The furnishings of which appeared to be a disparate mix of both the cutting edge of modern technologic design, and the kind of thing you might find in an old, lived-in home. 

“What’re _you_ still doin’ ‘ere?” Came a voice devoid most its usual caustic edge. 

“What? Think you can scare me off?” Hobbs asked of the spy he spied crumpled up in the middle of an old overstuffed leather sofa. “I’ve seen **way** scarier. Like, you on a _good_ day,” he ribbed as he came to a stop in the middle of the room.

“Whatever,” said the guy it looked like was trying his best to sink into the cushions and shut out the world. Starting with the uninvited guest who wasn’t about to let him. 

“So... that was it, huh? Didn’t look like fun,” Hobbs offered. Mouth tipping into a genuine frown when the spy didn’t so much as throw him one of his patented ‘severely unimpressed’ looks. Just kept staring off into the middle distance. One hand still rubbing absently at his lightly laboring chest. 

That was when Hobbs noticed that the spy was down an important piece of hardware. 

“Oh, uh, here’s your sling. From earlier,” he said as he pulled the thing from where he’d shoved it into a back pocket sometime near when he’d accidentally acquired it. Giving it a quick toss when he figured the spy wouldn’t want to share personal space so soon after... all that craziness back in the kitchen. 

But Shaw made no move to catch nor even _look_ at the nylon monstrosity as it sailed through the air, hit the backboard right next to his head, and flopped down onto the sofa cushions in an admittedly harmless, pathetic sort of way. 

To that, Hobbs could only stand there and stare. At a loss as to what else he _could_ do. Until he remembered the most recent text he’d gotten from a certain, overprotective MI-6 agent.  
“You taking anything for the heart thing? Medication or...“

“Cereal box. Top o’ the fridge,” the man who was by that point more ‘in’ the couch than ‘on’ it confirmed. 

“Uh, okay, don’t go anywhere,” the cop instructed, glancing over his shoulder as his feet took him back the way they’d just come. Back to the kitchen which Hobbs was surprised showed not a sign of their largely one-sided showdown. Even the fridge looking as pristine as ever as he took the box down with a quick swipe. Glad that he hadn’t thrown out the breakfast food earlier when he’d checked and seen it was nearing expiration. 

His gladness though turned to confusion when he popped the top and all there was to see inside was a big, raisin filled, barely touched bag of bran flakes. 

“But, what if?” The detective mused, cocking an eyebrow as he reached inside the box, removed the bag of cereal entirely, and grinned as he struck gold. For down in the bottom, hidden from all but those who knew where to look, sat two small, orange, child proof bottles of pills.  
“Eureka.”

With the word of victory, Hobbs set the cereal box back where it went and returned to the den to find Shaw exactly where he’d left him. Looking just as miserable too.  
“Heads up,” he warned, tossing the bottles one after the other. Perhaps more impressed than he should have been when the things were caught in one swipe of a quicker than quick hand. 

Looking like it hurt, the spy used his off hand to pop the things open, then summarily dry swallowed one pill from each. Popping them closed with a sharp snap before tossing them back with a belated, “Heads up,” of his own. 

“You really weren’t kidding about that heart rhythm thing,” Hobbs offered as he caught the things he was surprised hadn’t been aimed for his head. 

“Yeah, remind me to send Brixton a gift basket,” Shaw mumbled from his side of the rather spartan room. 

“Wait, _who_?” Hobbs asked, feeling just a hint of dread at the spy’s words.

“You know: Brixton. Big fella, ‘bout half your size, bionic, bent on killing off fifty percent of the world’s population?”

“Wait, let’s take a step back for a second,” Hobbs suggested, not liking the way his skin was starting to crawl at the picture the Brit was painting for him. “Are you saying that your heart problem is because of that crazy bastard? Because of the mission?” 

“Doesn’t help that weren’t the first time I’ve been electrocuted,” the spy confirmed with an unhappy shake of his head. 

“That wasn’t the first time?” The cop asked, hoping he hadn’t heard right. 

“Naw,” the spy said with a shrug. Surprising Hobbs when he gave a heavy blink and went on. “Was back in my army days. We were stationed out in Bulgaria, workin’ a nasty game of cat and mouse with a cabal of wannabe international terrorists. Me and my partner were out doing some recon for the squad. Standard stuff. Dunno what gave us away, but before we knew it, we were in the back of a van. Sacks over our heads, needles in our necks, the whole shebang.”

“How’d you get away?” Hobbs asked, feeling like he should offer some sort of commiseration; sit next to the guy or at least stand about a half a dozen feet closer.  
Instead, he stayed where he was, aware that it wouldn’t be appreciated. 

“We didn’t.” The lack of inflection on the Brit’s voice hit Hobbs as more than a hair unsettling. 

“Where’d the electricity come into it?” The detective asked, even though he was pretty sure he didn’t want to push Shaw any farther down whatever rabbit hole the guy was obviously crawling his way into. 

“Bad guys. Wanted information. We weren’t talking, so they got persuasive.”

Hobbs couldn’t help the way his blood pressure rose at that burnt out, _dead_ look creeping to the forefront of the other man’s expression. 

“Was almost two days before our team found us. Another before they could get us evacuated to hospital. Nearly two months before we were cleared for duty again.”

The sudden rushing in his ears made it hard to process what Shaw was saying, but with a shake of his head, Hobbs ignored the noise and refocused. 

“Learnt a lot in those two days. ‘Bout human nature. What even the most decent of people will do, you get them desperate enough,” the one-time probable POW informed, voice hollow as the look in his averted eyes.

“You’ve _got_ to be kidding me,” Hobbs bit out against a sudden tightening of his jaw. Going on when it seemed to bring Shaw’s attention back to the here and now. “You’re telling me you’ve been **tortured** _multiple_ times?” 

“Hasn’t everybody?” Shaw asked in a tone aiming for neutral. 

“No! In fact, _most_ people have never been, are not being, and _will_ never be tortured in their entire lives!” Hobbs insisted, managing to keep most of it under a yell. “Man, what do they _teach_ you people down at that spy training academy?”

“Advanced interrogation techniques. As well as how to resist the same,” said the spy with the past even more sordid than Hobbs had known. 

“That’s sick,” Hobbs informed with a suppressed shiver at the thought. The _implication_. 

“Maybe,” Shaw allowed with an artfully noncommittal shrug. 

“What kind of agency _tortures_ it’s own people?” Asked the man who’d only just realized how little he really understood about the world of spies. 

“The kind that gets results,” Shaw supplied with a raised brow. 

“The kind that betrays their own,” Hobbs reminded. Thinking of both the Shaw in front of him and the Shaw he suddenly hoped hadn’t gone through the same training track as her big, war hero of a brother. Though, knowing the woman as well as he’d gotten to, he knew there was no way she would have shied away from _any_thing once she’d put her mind to it. 

“Can’t take the heat, join a different division,” Shaw said, no doubt quoting some sort of in-agency adage. 

“But wait, you’re saying that your heart was damaged way back then? By the Bulgarian terrorist cell?” Hobbs asked, attempting to pull the conversation train back on track.

“Yeah, Brixton _knew_ it too. ‘S why he chose old-fashioned jumper cables and truck batteries to try and turn us,” the spy informed, tone caught somewhere between flippant and resentful. 

“That ‘one more’ he was baiting us with... really would have been it for you?” Hobbs asked, voice softening as he lost sensation in his fingertips.

“...Yeah. Apparently.”

“Damn,” the only thing Hobbs could think to fill the empty, uncomfortable silence the room was suddenly **made** of.  
Eventually though, he met Shaw’s eye and asked the next thing that needed asking.  
“You’re gonna be okay though, right?” 

“In theory,” the spy said with a scoff. Somehow managing to sink himself even deeper into his couch as he gave another heavy blink. “Doc has me scheduled for a procedure,” he informed. Pausing to rub distractedly at his chest before going on. “They’re gonna install a pacemaker. Since the problem’s ‘electrical in nature’.”

“That’s good, right? Simple process, simple fix. Then you’re back out there doing your thing in no time,” Hobbs pointed out, hoping the encouragement helped dissolve that look of defeated acceptance from his indomitable frenemy’s face. 

“Yeah, that’s _after_ I’m all healed up. After all the testing and reprogramming the doc’s gonna have to do to make sure everything’s kosher. Then MI-6’s gonna put me through the ringer re-evaluatin’ me for field duty. _Plus_ the fact that if I ever get shocked like that again, even _with_ the shielded pacemaker... I’m done for.”

Hobbs had to look away from the man whose hangdog expression was tugging and tugging hard on his conscience, reminding him exactly whose loud mouth it was made a bad situation all the more deadly.  
All because he just **had** to be the most macho guy in the room. Or the funniest. Or the bravest. Or whatever had been behind his compulsion to dis the guy holding the button that completed that nasty, _painful_ circuit. 

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do,” came an admission that blindsided the American. “Haven’t got a clue,” insisted the spy Hobbs couldn’t help but gape at. “Probably gonna have to take the early retirement the buggers are hangin’ over my-“

“Bullshit,” Hobbs hadn’t realize he’d been the one to say until the guy on the couch flashed a reflexive, halfhearted glare his way. “I know exactly what you’re gonna do and it’s not gonna be _that_,” Hobbs found himself saying, suddenly feeling like he’d found his footing. “You’re gonna kick this heart disease thing’s **ass**. Then you’re gonna kick those namby-pamby MI-6 proctor’s asses and you’re gonna get back out there doing exactly what you were born to do: kick the bad guy’s ass. And you’re gonna do it all in style. Shaw style.”  
Hobbs quirked a smile when he saw the corner of his buddy’s mouth tip up against his moody British sensibilities. 

“Right, and I’m gonna listen to _you_ on the matter, am I? The guy who came back from a broken leg in what, four days?” Shaw countered with an admirable stab at his usual level of snark. 

“Absolutely. Because the guy who came back from a broken leg in _two_ days knows a thing or two about healing, and he’s not against sharing trade secrets with his friends.”

“Right, and where are those, exactly? Back in the States? ‘Cause I’m not seein’ any round here,” Shaw said as he made a show of looking around his living room. 

“Oh, low blow,” Hobbs insisted with a good natured scowl. “You know you can’t stand the thought of living life without me,” he chided. 

“Right. Same way you couldn’t possibly _hope_ to save the world without me? Is that what this is all about?” The spy asked with a well hooked brow. “Had to make sure for yourself that the only human on earth can keep it spinning didn’t expire on your watch?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, you know damn well there are _three_ humans who keep the world spinning,” Hobbs informed. Smirk sneaking up on him as he remembered the response he’d gotten from the absent member of that team. “And human number three’s coming over soon as her shift’s up at headquarters.”

“The hell, Hobbs?” Shaw growled, suddenly off the couch and stalking forward. “You **know** how bad she’s had it since-“

“You’re right; I _do_!” Hobbs shouted. Doing his best to not feel guilty when the spy stopped in his tracks in a way he never would have if he was healthy.  
The cop lowered his shoulders in a bid to show he meant no harm before continuing. “You’re too close to this, so I think I’m seeing things a little more wide angle here,” he said, relieved when Shaw relaxed the last of his body’s defensive muscles. “Hattie’s worried. If I was in her position, I’d want an update too.” 

“Yeah, stow it for a _functional_ family,” the spy said as he made his way back to his dent in the sofa. Looking, if possible, even more beat than he had when Hobbs had knocked on his door. 

“Are you okay?” The detective asked when the Brit rubbed at his eyes. 

With a noise of annoyance, Shaw sent an unfocused glare Hobbs’ direction. “‘S the meds.”

Hobbs held up the bottles he hadn’t realized he was still holding and for the first time took more than a cursory look at the labels of each. One he didn’t have the medical background necessary to parse; the other was full of sleeping pills. 

“Suppose _you’ll_ have to let Hattie in,” the spy suddenly _well_ on his way to falling asleep said around a stifled yawn. “Bear in mind: anything untoward happens, I **will** find out, and I’ll take it out of your hide.”

“Noted,” the cop assured with a bewildered nod. Suddenly wondering whether the meds now tucked safely away in his pocket had something to do with the eerily candid conversation they’d just slogged their way through. 

“Fuckin’ drugs,” the Brit slurred out, right before his head lolled back to rest on the sofa’s overstuffed backboard. 

“Woah,” Hobbs whispered to himself, not sure what he was supposed to do with... all that. 

Figuring he ought to take pity on the Brit’s neck, Hobbs stepped up and, careful to keep as many important organs out of reach as he could, nudged his frenemy until the guy was lying out flat across his makeshift bed.  
Satisfied, he took a step back, genuinely surprised he hadn’t at least gotten smacked for his efforts, and from his new angle, noticed a well worn throw that had somehow dropped off one side of the sofa. 

Knowing if it were him, he’d rather be covered than not, Hobbs grabbed the lump off the floor and draped it over the unconscious spy. Then, with a quick hand under the guy’s nose to check he was still breathing normally, the LA cop meandered his way back over to the kitchen and the only other chairs the joint had. So he could sit until Shaw number two got off work and paid her medicated brother a visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dude. It was the mission all along. That’s rough. Wonder how Hobbs is gonna feel knowing that too.  
On a positive note: Next chapter marks Hattie’s first in the flesh appearance! Hope ya’ll’re looking forward to it the same way I am! XD


	8. A Little Help From A Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hattie’s coming for a visit. Hopefully she likes what she finds.

“How’d you manage it?” Asked a voice that broke Hobbs from his perusal of The Times funnies. With just a hint of a start. 

“Hattie? How’d _you_\- I mean... I didn’t hear you come in,” the cop said, pivoting in his seat to see the woman standing in the doorway, looking practically the opposite of her brother in her snappy work suit and perfectly professional posture. 

“Spy. Remember?” She asked as she walked into the kitchen. Draping her jacket over the back of a spare island chair before turning to address her brother’s guest. “Besides, I made copies of Decks keys. While he was in hospital.”

The slight jingle from the pocket of the spy’s cold weather layer backing up her story, Hobbs could do nothing but once again concede the point:  
The woman was good. 

“But enough about me,” the off duty agent insisted as she settled herself into that same coatrack of a chair. “I’m still dying to know, ’How’d you do it?’”

“Do what?” Hobbs asked, setting down his newspaper in favor of being politely interrogated. 

“Decks.”

“What? What about Deck?” The American practically stuttered, hoping the spy hadn’t somehow sussed the fact that a pseudo fight had gone down in that very kitchen not a handful of hours earlier. 

“He’s sleeping. Out like a light. Right over there on that ratty old sofa,” Hattie said with a point towards her brother’s living room. 

“Oh, that,” Hobbs said, the relief almost showing on his face. “Yeah, he did that on his own. Took his meds and just sat there glaring at me till he passed out. Was actually _really_ weird,” the cop said, trying not to dwell on the thought. 

“‘Did it on his own’, eh?” Hattie asked, reaching up to cover her face when a lone chuckle stretched into a little fit. The slight sparkle to her eyes when the hand came back down unsettling the detective more than being snuck up on had.  
“I’ve been trying to get him to take those sleeping pills for _days_,” she informed, face going steely for just a heartbeat. Further throwing Hobbs from his comfort zone. 

“I don’t know what else to say, Hattie,” Hobbs said, mouth pulling into a contrite sort of grimace at the implication that his frenemy hadn’t been _sleeping_. 

“I’d start with a self-satisfied ‘you’re welcome’, put in your place.”

“You’re welcome?”

“Eh, good enough for now,” the spy said with a ‘so-so’ tilt of a hand. 

“What’re you-“

“Oh, come now, Hobbs,” Hattie started with a hook of one brow, “it took until you showed up for Decks to be a good boy and take his meds. The ‘you’re welcome’ was well earned.”

“Uh...”

“Right, you’ve spent the day with him; tell me, does he seem alright to you?” The woman asked, her casual lean forward unable to disguise the intense look in her eyes. 

“Uh, well, off the bat, he didn’t try to kill me when I knocked on his door,” Hobbs supplied with a confused flex of his face. 

“Ooh, sounds like the passion’s died. My condolences.”

“Wha-“

“Did he seem otherwise off?” The woman asked, perhaps purposefully not giving Hobbs the time to process her last statement. 

“Well, I don’t know whether this is new but... I think he’s Buddhist,” Hobbs informed. 

“With that zen garden of his? I had a suspicion,” Hattie said with a pensive nod. “Good for him.”

“Yeah, he seems to like it,” Hobbs agreed with a half smile at the memory of walking in on his frenemy, seated in a meditative posture and looking almost at peace. For the moment. 

“What you think, then? Is he coping with... everything? Or are we worried about him going further south?” The sister asked, intense look somehow _intensifying_. 

Looking down to where his hands were clasped together on the islandtop, Hobbs took a moment to put together his thoughts before speaking.  
“I think you were right about him: the man’s depressed. Hell, I would be too if the shoe was on the other foot,” the cop admitted with a shake of his head.  
“But, so long as he doesn’t get blindsided by any more bad news, I don’t think we’ve got anything major to worry about. Especially seeing as I have a feeling his ‘mood’ is half just him bent out of shape about having to deal with the restricted movement comes along with being busted up and sore,” Hobbs said, thinking about the sling the guy’d been wearing all day. “Plus, he’s worried about not being able to keep his job after the surgery.”

“Typical Decks,” Hattie said with a sigh and a shake of her head. “Doesn’t even realize he has paid sick leave to look forward to.”

“All work and no play?” Hobbs asked with a quirk of his brow. 

“Far back as I remember,” the sister confirmed, expression finally de-intensifying. 

“Eh, older brothers are like that,” the younger brother consoled, aware Hattie’d know which relation he was referring to. 

“I dunno, Jonah didn’t seem all that bad.”

“That’s because you brought him a project to _work_ on,” the cop pointed out, eyebrows rising for emphasis. 

“Oh, s’pose I could see that.”

“Yeah, with Jonah, if it ain’t work related, he ain’t interested.”

“So, like Decks, then?” Hattie said on a snicker. 

“Big brothers,” Hobbs confirmed with a sigh. 

“Still, better’n _no_ brothers,” the spy pointed out with a twitch of the lips. 

“Amen, sister. Amen,” the cop agreed with a chuckle. 

After a long beat, the sister smiled a wicked smile and pointed one finger off toward her brother’s living room.  
“So, what say we put Mr. No Fun over there to bed?” 

One exceedingly confused look and about a minute later found the two in the living room staring at one of the deadliest humans either of them had ever met. Who just so happened to currently be at _least_ as unconscious as either had ever seen him. 

“You sure about this, Hattie?” Hobbs asked with a grimace. “‘Cause _I’m_ pretty sure the guy’d sooner hack off my hands than let me help him up a flight of stairs. I don’t even wanna **think** about what he’d do if he woke up halfway to his room, being carried around in my arms like some sort of overgrown toddler.“

“What? I mean, yeah Decks is a bit prickly, but he’s a right _kitten_ when it comes to... non-enemies,” the sister offered with a confident gesture toward the lightly snoring spy on the couch. “‘Sides, those sleeping pills the doc gave him come in a small batch on **purpose**. They’re not regular, civilian strength. These ones are for folks like us; paranoid, insomniac, don’t-need-sleep-to-live sorts. He’s out,” she concluded, nod decisive and final. 

“Alright,” Hobbs acquiesced, taking the last few steps to bring him right up to the couch’s droopy front, “but if I get stabbed for this, you’ll owe me. _Big_ time.”

“Yeah, sorry, not getting stabbed tonight,” Hattie refuted with a wrinkle of her nose. But at the unimpressed look it got her, she rolled her eyes and took an earnest step forward. “Look, we’re standing right here, talking like there _isn’t_ an assassin with decades of experience under his belt sleeping within arm’s reach and guess what? Still sleeping.”

Hobbs blinked as the obviousness of it set in. 

“So? Not getting stabbed.”

“Can’t argue with that logic,” the bodybuilder admitted with a raise of both his brow and exceedingly well muscled shoulders.  
Still, he gave the man’s face one more careful study for signs of consciousness before squaring his hips and dipping low enough to get himself lined up for his death defying task. 

Keeping a weather eye for the slightest of change in breathing pattern, Hobbs got a ginger arm under the throw blanket and _slowly_, **carefully**, snaked it between a slumbering frenemy’s shoulders and the sofa’s old cushions.  
Silently sighing out a breath he belatedly realized he’d been holding onto for dear life when those soft snores didn’t so much as hiccup. 

“There, see? No stabbing. Just several well earned, uninterruptible, medication induced hours of rest,” Hattie chided, surprising Hobbs with her demonstrating the self-restraint necessary to do so quietly.  
Before he remembered who the mature one in the room was. 

Giving the adult behind him a mute nod, he slipped another arm under the blanket and this time with a modicum of confidence, scooped it beneath a pair of lax, sweatpants covered knees. Not breaking his rather singular concentration until he was straightened back up and certain his double armful was secure. Only then did he turn to bring his secondary host back into view.  
“So... where to?” 

“You haven’t had the grand tour? Or had yourself a nice little look round?” Hattie asked, sounding a tad genuinely confused. 

“Not a spy, remember?” Hobbs said with a pointed look between the surprisingly manageable weight in his arms and the lady who gave him a ‘to each their own’ raise of her brow before starting off down a hall he hadn’t even really noticed until then. 

“You always such a gentleman when dropping by unannounced?” Hattie asked in a quiet, over the shoulder jab. 

“Gotta make up for the unannounced part,” Hobbs said at a similar volume, aware that close walls bounced voices around differently than open rooms. 

“That why you’re bridal styling my brother to bed?”

“What?!” Hobbs asked in alarm, stopping in his tracks when the word came out a little too loud and the body tucked against his chest flinched in response. 

Neither the detective nor the spy so much as blinked as they watched the disturbed assassin for warnings of wakefulness. Hobbs stiffening in apprehension when the man in his arms mumbled what sounded like a string of coordinates and turned his face further into the warmth that was the beleaguered cop’s massive, firm, suddenly tingling, pectoral. 

Only once the soft snores started up again did the escort team share a relieved nod and make their way through the door at the hall’s end. 

“Gimme a sec,” said the one of them in front as she flicked on the light and moved over to the bed, pulling the unmade, rumpled covers back the rest of the way and indicating the cleared sleeping surface with a wave of one arm. 

Shuffling to make sure he didn’t trip over any of the clothes abandoned in outfit sized heaps in seemingly random places across the floor, Hobbs made his way to the bed. Unsure once there exactly how he should go about putting down the hefty weight expertly balanced against his chest. 

“Same way you picked him up,” Hattie suggested at his hesitation. 

So with a little help from the man’s world class sister, Hobbs had the medicated spy out of his perfectly willing and capable, prize winning arms and cozied into a sleeping arrangement that _wouldn’t_ cause the not exactly spring chicken terrible back pain. 

“**Finally**,” Hobbs sighed as the two pseudo caretakers found themselves once more in the relative safety of the elder Shaw’s living room. 

“Yeah, Decks’ had it rough since the whole Eteon fiasco,” Hattie admitted, giving the room a quick visual sweep before offering Hobbs her full attention. 

“Speaking of, did you know that the mission’s what triggered Deck’s heart problem?”

“Uh, yeah, the doc was pretty emphatic about that,” the sister informed, one hand on her hip as she gave the detective an unimpressed tweak of her brow. 

“Well, did you also know that that wasn’t the first time? That that brother of yours has been tortured _multiple_ times?” Hobbs challenged, not able to stop himself even as he hoped he wasn’t committing some unforgivable breach of trust. 

“Hasn’t everybody?” Hattie asked with a shrug. 

“Not you too,” Hobbs found himself lamenting as he brought up a hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose.  
When he looked back up, the woman had her brows locked in a quizzical sort of arch. 

“Am I to take it that Brixton’s little electro-bondage thing was _your_ first time?” She asked, expression unwavering. 

“Oh my God, never, _ever_ say that-“

“So, your first rodeo? Black Superman pop your advanced interrogation cherry? Never done the toe-to-toe tango with a pair of jumper cables and a car battery be-“

“Yes! Alright, yes, it was my first time. _Jesus_, you’re worse than your brother,” Hobbs proclaimed, covering his face with both hands as he fought to keep a sudden, rising blush at bay.  
The hands moved away though when he felt a gentle touch on one shoulder. 

“It’s alright, Hobbs. I’m here if you ever need to talk.” The steady, non-judgmental way the spy stared up at him had the cop believing every word. “Though, I’m sure the DOD could provide someone with a Ph.D to do it better. Or you and Decks could always do your little shtick and argue about ‘who would’ve lasted longest’ or ‘who had it worse’ or-“

At the way Hattie’s mouth shut mid sentence, eyes cutting back towards the darkened door they’d left ajar, Hobbs was reminded of the reason for her being there in the first place.  
“Hattie, it’s not your fault- _none_ of that Eteon bull crap was and neither is Deck’s heart.”

“I know. Just... He almost- Deckard almost **died**, Luke. Right in front of me. I could _feel_ his heart, his lungs, all seizin’ up inside him. I almost broke his ribs,” she admitted, chuckle wet and wry and wracked as she shook her head against the memory. “I could feel ‘em creakin’ under my hands. Worse when I got desperate. When his lips started to go blue. When he passed out.” 

If she’d been anyone else, Hobbs would have wrapped her up in a hug, right then and there. But, _knowing_ that wouldn’t be the right step with her, the detective went for the next best thing.  
“Hattie, it’s alright. I’m here if you ever need to talk.”

“Fuck off,” the spy insisted as she swiped a hand under one eye. Smile breaking out though when she looked up and caught the steady, non-judgmental look the mountain of a man had leveled her way. 

“Yeah, I been gettin’ that a lot lately,” Hobbs observed, giving his head a quick scratch as he did. “Is it something I said? Something I _didn’t_ say?”

“Honestly, I think it’s you,” Hattie said with a shake of her head. “You’ve just got one of those faces.”

“No, you know what? I figured it out,” Hobbs said with a wag of one finger. “It’s _you_ two. It’s a Shaw thing.”

“Right, keep telling yourself that,” the spy chided, tone dry yet not unfriendly. 

With a chuckle, Hobbs took a look around and, perhaps for the first time since he’d arrived, wondered what the hell he was even doing there. 

“You’re staying on? At least the night?” Hattie asked, as if sensing his uncertainty, tone just a smidge hopeful. 

“Unless you can recommend a good hotel,” Hobbs suggested in a halfhearted sort of way. 

“Nope. They’re all crap,” Hattie insisted in that absolutely certain way that only a true local has the right to. 

“In that case; couch time,” said the detective eying the couch with a healthy helping of misgiving. 

“Don’t be daft; there’s a guest room right over there,” Hattie insisted with a wave of one hand. 

“Oh. Well, then I guess I _will_ be ‘staying on’ after all.“

“Good,” Hattie began, suddenly all business as she walked off towards the kitchen. “I have things to finish up at headquarters but I’ll be back before lunch tomorrow,” the spy informed as she retrieved her coat from where she’d left it on the spare island stool. “I’m taking the day off even if I have to wring someone’s neck for approval.”

Hobbs watched as the woman pulled on her outer layer and slipped on a pair of gloves she’d had stashed in one pocket, not sure whether him voicing his hope that she’d squeeze in some sleep between now and then would be appreciated. But with the ever so slightly challenging look she shot him, he knew it wouldn’t. So he settled.  
“Kick their asses.”

“Heh, obviously,” the spy promised with a good natured chuckle. Good mood intact as she came back into the living room.  
“Right, here’s a copy of the house key, just in case, and here’s the number of Decks’ cardiologist,” she said in a brisk, no nonsense clip. Handing over first a nondescript, silver key, followed by an embossed business card with a crease across one corner. 

“Take care, Hattie. I’ll see ya tomorrow,” Hobbs said as he pocketed both. 

“Make sure he eats when the drugs wear off. There should be eggs in the fridge,” Hattie instructed as she made her way to the front door. Barely pausing to bid a quick, “‘Night, Hobbs,” before stepping out. And locking every lock the thing had, by the sound of it. 

“Soooo...” the LA cop said to a once again deserted house, “anyone else hungry? ‘Cause _I_ could go for some chow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it just me, or is there a blooming bromance going on between these two? Feels almost like Hattie and Hobbs are on their way to becoming besties! :D


	9. Sleeping Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talk about eventful days! Surely Shaw’s seen enough excitement for... Oh. Never mind. Here comes _more_.

Well, moment of truth, thought a Hobbs who was getting tired of staring down the paint on that particular side of the bedroom door. “All or nothin’, baby,” he whispered to himself, affecting his most relaxed persona while simultaneously bracing for whatever came at him from inside the room.  
“Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty!” 

“Wha’ the fuck?” Came the surprised, half awake, barely articulate question. 

“Yeah, that’s what I figured,” Hobbs admitted with a relieved drop of his shoulders as he pushed his way through the bedroom door. “Hattie said those things were too powerful for the general public.”

“No, ‘what the fuck’ are you still doin’ in my house, Hobbs?” Came the rankled question from the man attempting to disentangle himself from his well slept in bed covers. 

“Mostly making breakfast,” the cop said, trying not to laugh as he watched one of the black market’s deadliest assassins having a world class fight with a harmless set of linens. “Also, thanks for lettin’ me sleep the night.”

“I didn’t ‘let you’ do anything! You bloody well hauled off and did it on your own,” the man growled, looking about ready to up and cut himself out of his tangled nest. Stopping only when he caught sight of what his houseguest was carrying.  
“The hell is _that_ for?”

“Didn’t want Princess Aurora taking a spill on the way to the kitchen,” Hobbs said, quite matter-of-factly. “So, breakfast in bed.”

“No.”

“_Yes_. Now hold still,” Hobbs insisted as he set the bed tray in position over his hopelessly cocooned frenemy. Careful to keep everything important out of range of easy retaliation. 

The man in the blanket burrito spent several seconds too long staring at the tray of steaming eggs, toast, and coffee before looking to his guest. At whom, he again stared a few seconds too long before speaking.  
“I’m not hungry,” he said, expression riding a hard to interpret line somewhere between medicated befuddlement and murderous resentment. 

“That might be how you feel right now, but I know for a fact that you haven’t eaten since I got here and even fairytale princesses need to eat.” When that got the look leaning farther towards the murderous side, Hobbs held up both hands and tried again.  
“C’mon, man, look, I swear none of it’s poisoned or tampered with —I’ll even eat some in front of you if that’s the issue— and I also guarantee that if you take a bite, you’re tastebuds’ll be beggin’ for more.”

Eyes narrowing while he extricated first one and then the other arm from their comfy prison, the spy picked up the provided spoon and popped a scoop of fluffy egg in his mouth. Hobbs hoping the guy didn’t notice the conspicuous absence of anything even _vaguely_ pointy on the food tray. 

“Well?” The cop asked, trying to keep down a smile when the mouthful was swallowed and not spat back out onto the plate out of pure spite. Like he’d imagined might happen. 

“You’re right. Not poisoned.” 

Hiding a face splitting smile by turning to pick up the clothing hazards he'd managed to avoid on his way in, Hobbs took the victory with aplomb and dignity. Not even stopping to say ‘told you so’ when he heard his infirmed frenemy hum at his sip of the coffee he’d French pressed not minutes earlier. 

“Do I even _want_ to know what you’re doin’ now?” Was thrown his way about the time he’d collected a good armful of the rumpled clothes items. 

“You got a hamper around here somewhere?” Hobbs asked in place of an answer, seeing as his current activity was fairly self-explanatory. 

“No.” Came the short answer. 

“Ah, so it _is_ dry-clean only?”

“Half of it,” the spy begrudged, a moment before taking a nice sized bite of his lightly buttered toast. 

“Ha, found it,” the detective said as he cracked open a closet and spied a small cylindrical clothing holding implement. Or what appeared to be one, anyway.  
Not hearing any protests when he shoved a handful of washables in it, he figured he’d figured right and so shoved the rest in with an ‘alright then’ shrug. 

“Quit touching my stuff,” the grouch probably still _stuck_ in bed demanded between sips of his black brew. 

“You start cleaning up after yourself and I won’t _have_ to,” Hobbs asserted, closing the closet and turning to find somewhere to put the soon to be dry cleaning.  
When he didn’t hear a scoff or any snarky backtalk, the makeshift maid pulled up short and tried not to look concerned while he took a peek his reluctant host’s way. 

“What’re you still doing here, Hobbs?” Asked the guy who was somehow suddenly managing to look _less_ rested than the day before. Face tired and confused and just plain **done** with it all. 

“Like I said: Cleaning up after _your_ lazy ass,” Hobbs said, neatly ignoring the utterly depressing sight. “Now, finish your food so I can clean that up too,” he added with a pointed glance at the barely disturbed spread. 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” said a spy who looked like he might finally have shaken the last of the medicated fog from his brain, eyes and expression sharpened and zeroed in on the target of their disaffection. 

“I’ll be in the kitchen, washing your cookware,” Hobbs informed, taking that opportunity to get out of there before things got hairy. 

Deciding a trash bag was as good a place as any to store the dry cleaning until he could get it to the cleaners, the part time personal assistant scrounged up a fresh one, piled the clothes neatly inside, and left the bag by the door for safe keeping. Then he made his way back into the kitchen and started in on the post breakfast cleanup. 

“Bloody hell!” Hobbs thought he heard, sounding like it’d been shouted from behind a couple closed doors.  
With a shrug he went back to scrubbing, deciding he could afford to be unconcerned until the fight came to him. 

Approximately two dishes later and the unpaid maid heard the rough shutting of a door and the sound of approaching, _still_ bare feet. 

“You let me sleep for fourteen bloody hours?!” Yelled a positively seething Brit as he stalked into the kitchen, accusatory look unwavering. 

“Hey, buddy, ‘let’s got nothing to do with it,” Hobbs informed, looking up from his soapy water long enough to a.) make sure he wasn’t about to get smacked, and b.) give a warning shake of his sponge at the guy who looked like he could use _another_ fourteen hours under the covers. As a down payment.  
“Besides, jet lag kept me down late anyhow,” he admitted with a shrug as he went back to washing the angry guy’s nonstick frying pan. 

“I haven’t slept that long in-“ The spy bit off his sentence before he could finish it, turning for his living room as he did. 

“I’m surprised you’ve _ever_ slept that long,” Hobbs said to himself. But at a normal volume. Convinced that the hibernation style night of sleep had done the guy good when he glanced over and caught the bird the retreating back shot him. 

The dude was huffy, but that was an improvement over the listless revenant who’d tried to shut him out of his house yesterday. 

“Oh, you might wanna get dressed,” Hobbs called over his shoulder, putting the last of the clean but soaking wet cookware in the dish drainer. “Your sister’s coming over. Said she’s taking the day.”

A guttural, protracted, bottom of the diaphragm groan filtered in from the den and Hobbs couldn’t hold back a smile as he peeled out of his dish washing gloves. 

This was going to be a _fun_ day off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh, I wonder what kind of exciting activities Hattie has planned?  
Also, thanks so much for reading and I hope everyone out there is doing okay!


	10. Family Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hattie’s back and she means business. _Fun_ business!

Not a minute after Hobbs had moved to follow his begrudging host, the sister in question made her presence known. The sound of jingling keys breaking the men from their impromptu stare-off before they’d gotten too invested. 

“We’re going out for lunch,” Hattie informed, Hobbs not sure whether he was also being spoken to as she burst in through the front door and swept right on through to join them in the living room. “Oh, and Mum’s on her way. Don’t worry; she promised to be on her best behavior,” she informed, that time definitely speaking specifically to her brother. 

“That’s gotta be the worst idea I’ve ever bloody heard!” Insisted the unhappy guy who’d once again taken a comfy perch **in** the cushions of his ancient sofa.

“Oh, come on, Decks, we’ve gotten up to _much_ worse,” countered the sister hanging her fresh shucked coat over the crook of one elbow. “In the last week, if memory serves.”

Hobbs glanced from one sibling to the other and crossed his arms, hunkering in to just watch from where he was leaned against a wall off to one side, morbid fascination begging he not miss a moment of the coming argument. 

“I mean, bringing _Mum_ into this? The woman’s-“

“Worried, last I checked,” Hattie challenged with a tilt of her head. 

“Nope. Tell her there’s nothing to see here and she might as well go back to whatever underground racket she’s occupying herself with now,” instructed the oldest Shaw sibling. 

“Mm, nope. Mum has every right to pinch your cheek and kiss it better because she’s your bloody **mum**. She doesn’t need your permission to stick her nose in your business,” Hattie rationalized for the man in the couch’s sake. 

“Yeah? Well, I’m not going anywhere anyhow, so you might as well call off your little ‘intervention’ before you burn up what precious free time you have left,” the petulant older brother said with a curl of his lip. 

“There’s no calling off that woman once she’s been invited to the party. You know that well as me,” the sister reminded, expression exasperated as it was firm. 

“Uhg, don’t remind me,” the elder Shaw groaned, sinking further into his couch’s backboard as he did. 

“Well, chop-chop, time to get dressed. If you don’t want Mum teasing you for your PJs all day,” the sister warned with a shrug. Doing an admirable job, if you asked the non-family member in the room, of pretending like she didn’t care either way. 

“What part of ‘I’m not going’ are you havin’ difficulty with?” The underdressed man quipped, not moving an inch from his uncharacteristic slouch. Or, the slouch Hobbs was _pretty_ sure was uncharacteristic, anyway. 

“Decks, I really don’t understand you letting yourself go like this,” Hattie started with a shake of her head. “I mean, your never gonna get properly dressed and leave your house again just because the world is completely and utterly against your continued existence? Doesn’t make sense. After all, it’s never stopped you before.”

“Hattie, for the last time, I’m not going,” the brother insisted, surprising Hobbs with the restraint in his voice. The detective knowing that if it were _him_ trying to get his frenemy to agree to a lunch out, he’d have been yelled at by then. If not worse. 

“Listen, Decks,” restarted the determined sister, “I know the doc said to take it easy, but, I mean, for you —for _us_—, taking it easy is giving it all we got. You know, going out there and giving the world and all its bad guys hell.”

“Yeah, and if any of those bad guys come for us while we’re havin’ ourselves a nice, soppy, family outing? I’d be worth sod all in a fight and you know it,” came an argument whose rationale Hobbs didn’t have difficulty understanding. For once. 

“Uh, in case you’ve forgotten, me, Mum? We can handle ourselves. We’re badasses. Besides, Hobbs over there can be your bodyguard,” Hattie suggested. 

Another argument Hobbs understood just fine. And agreed with. For once. 

At the severely unconvinced look from the sofa though, the sister decided to come at it from another angle.  
“Look, Decks, if the thought of getting spotted and made is what’s got you all turned about, then we’ll put you in jeans and a baseball cap. You’ll look American.”

“I’ll look like a serial killer,” the older Shaw protested, face puckering in disdain. 

“Even better,” Hattie insisted, holding one hand out in Hobbs’ direction. 

“Uh...?” The cop asked from his lean against the wall. Unsure what was being asked of him. 

“Oh, come now,” the spy prompted with a flex of her outstretched hand. “No American worth their salt would travel abroad without at least _one_ loud, gaudy, slogan plastered, sun bleached baseball cap.”

“...It’s in my bag,” Hobbs admitted, squinting at just how accurately Hattie had him pegged. Before leaving the two long enough to find his day bag and pull out a cap which just so happened to resemble the MI6 agent’s description embarrassingly well.  
Upon return, he didn’t miss the momentary look of carnal glee that overtook Hattie’s face when the tourist paraphernalia made contact with her upturned palm. 

“There,” Hattie said as she gave her brother no choice in the matter and settled the travel wrinkled hat atop his unamused head. “Now you look downright conspicuous.”

“Perfect, I’ll be _so_ noticeable, no one in their right mind would look at me twice. I’m not wearing it,” Shaw finished as he swiped the cap from his head and made to stuff it between his couch cushions. 

“No, that’s not yours,” the Shaw wearing more than PJs chastised, snatching the hat and setting it back on her brother’s head before it could sustain any lasting damage. 

“If it’s not mine, then why’m _I_ wearin’ it?” 

The high click of a set of heels cut off any answer before it could be given and turned all heads for the door no one had bothered relocking.  
Considering who it was they were expecting, the sound didn’t set off any alarm bells for the detective in the room, but when he noticed it had the Shaw siblings tightening up, Hobbs pulled himself from where he'd retaken his spot against the wall to stand at attention. Ready in case things were about to take a sudden dip south. 

“Oh, Decksie, it’s worse than I thought! Now you’re a bloody American,” the one and only Magdalene Shaw said as she bustled her way through to the living room. Sparing but a glance the once again relaxed ‘bodyguard’s’ way. 

“Hello, Mum. Good to see you too,” the son in the sofa quipped back. 

“You don’ look near bad as Hattie’s photo. Well, _aside_ the extremely unpatriotic choice in headgear,” the mother of spies amended, only stopping once she’d come within easy reach of her children. Where she leaned in close enough to remove the offending cap from her son’s head, hand it to her practically giddy faced daughter, and bring both her hands up to cup her eldest’s face. One on either side. To better inspect the bruises the clothing item had nearly obscured from sight. 

Feeling just a bit like a fly on the wall, Hobbs held back a smile when his grouchy frenemy allowed the overtly motherly action. With no more protest than a small cringe around the eyes. 

“The hat was foisted on me and I’m sure however that photo looks, it’s that bad _deliberately_,” Deck insisted, looking relieved when his newest visitor released her grip on his face with a less than happy shake of her head. 

“Well, if disguises are what you two’re playing at, then I’d say you’ve cracked the code. Considering _I_ barely recognized you, and I’m your bloody mother,” the woman said with a snort. Straightening to take a look around the living room while she did. Her eyes lingering this time when they landed on the statuesque Hobbs lounging in his spot against the wall. 

“Like I said, I’m _not_ wearing the bloody-“

“Thanks, Mum. Hobbs’s lending it to us for the day,” Hattie offered, entertainment showing no signs of waning anytime soon. 

“Mm, thoughtful for an American, isn’t he?” The matriarch observed as she looked back to her children. 

“No.”

”You know what, duckie?” Magdalene asked, neatly ignoring her son’s rude denial. “I think we should get you some chewing gum. Then you’ll be a _proper_ American,” the mother said, not stepping back from her now even more unhappy child. 

“Mum-“

“Oi, don’t ‘Mum’ me,” the career criminal chastised with a raise of one eyebrow. “Now come on, I know just the thing: before lunch, we’ll go and have ourselves a nice little ride round the park in one of those horse-drawn carriages.”

“Oh, you’re right, Mum, Decks’s always just _loved_ horses. That’ll cheer him right up,” Hattie exclaimed with a growing smile. 

“Hey, I was _twelve_, alright? Of _course_ I liked horses,” Shaw said in what Hobbs decided was the spy’s version of an embarrassed sort of indignant. 

“Yeah, tell that to the Black Beauty poster you had tacked up in your room through-“

“It was too much trouble to take down!” An ever so slightly red eared Shaw cut in. Embarrassment seeming to win out against the indignity. 

“You know what?” Hobbs interjected before things could get _too_ interesting. “_I_ love horses and I also think a ride in the park is one of the safest activities we could go out for.”

“Oh, good thinkin’, Hobbs,” Hattie insisted, wicked smile landing on him for a moment. “It’s just about _the_ most tourist thing we could possibly do.”

“Why else do you think I suggested it?” The eldest Shaw offered with a satisfied smirk. 

“**Fine**, we’ll go ride the stupid carriage, but I’m _not_ playing at being American,” practically pouted the spy who, until only moments earlier, Hobbs hadn’t known _could_ blush. 

“Don’t worry, ducky, you’ve got your well endowed American friend for that,” Magdalene pointed out, eyes making Hobbs ever so slightly uncomfortable with the way they looked him slowly up and down while she said it. “All you’ve got to do is keep close to him. No one will even notice little old you.”

“That’s true,” Hattie started, giving Hobbs her own, thankfully less... ‘Magdalene’ version of a looking over as she did, “Hobbs here is so jacked, not even _I’d_ look twice at you.”

“Wow. Know what? I’ve changed my mind,” Deckard informed with a tight lipped scowl. “Today’s not a good day for family fun and it’s about time **all** of you were on your merry ways.“

“Oh, come on Decksie, you know your sister and me like to have a bit of fun,” the matriarch of the family chided. “Don’t mean nothin’ by it, sweetie,” she added as she moved forward and gave a gentle pat to her son’s upper arm. 

“Yeah, Decks, c’mon. Better make my takin’ work off worth it,” the sister insisted with an artfully ‘or else’ curl of the lip. 

The spy with the sour look on his face squirmed _just_ noticeably under the scrutiny. Then he did something Hobbs absolutely hadn’t been expecting.  
He looked over at him. Expression guarded yet... tentative. Almost like he wanted to ask the detective something. Like he wanted his frenemy’s opinion on his current conundrum. 

On the very, **very** off chance he was in fact reading that look right, Hobbs let one corner of his mouth tick up and gave his head a furtive bob.  
Then his eyes went wide as the suddenly resolute spy returned the nod and reverted his gaze to the expectant faces still staring him down. 

“Fine,” he said with a scowl. “But I’m not wearin’ the stupid hat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope that Magdalene’s first appearance went well and that the family dynamic is working out for y’all!


	11. A Walk In The Park

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deckard likes horses? And so does Luke? They have so much in common! XD

And so barely forty five minutes and one unnecessarily cramped taxi ride later found the eldest of the foursome handing over a neatly folded handful of bills to a sharply dressed coachman on the outskirts of a quaint, well manicured, bustling, metropolitan park.  
The footman swinging down from her perch to assist the newest passengers up and into their high, open-air seats as soon as the fair was counted and stowed.

Considering who it was from, Hobbs just hoped that the money wasn’t flagged the moment the unsuspecting driver deposited it. Or tried to buy feed with it. 

First in line to board, Hobbs accepted the steadying hand up from the footman with a thankful nod.  
Then, being first up into the cab, the thoughtful American offered a second helping hand up to first Magdalene, who took it with an ever so slightly coy twist of her mouth. Then to Hattie, who took it with a playful smirk before settling into the seat next to her mother.  
Then to the last Shaw on the ground. The one who was having a hard time figuring how he was going to get up into the carriage. Looking unhappy with the prospect of having to accept help from either the perfectly poised stranger in the riding breeches or the musclebound DOD agent trying hard not to smile right down at him. 

“Having a little trouble there, Deck?” Hobbs couldn’t help whispering as he bent a few inches closer to the confounded baseball capped head.

“Shut it,” he got whisper-snapped back at him as the last member of their party finally made up his mind and decided exactly how he was going to go it alone. Reaching up for one handrail and hopping to hit the bottom step at the right angle so as not to lose balance and be forced to bring his out of commission arm into play.  
Too bad for Deckard the tiny, definitely not ADA compliant ‘ladder’ was slick with mud tracked onto it by whoever’d last payed for a ride. 

“Gotcha,” Hobbs assured in that same discrete whisper as he caught a handful of the man’s jacket, letting go soon as the spy was steadied well enough that he didn’t need any more help hefting himself into the seating area. 

Happy to take the seat behind the driver, even if it had him technically sitting backwards, Hobbs settled down and managed not to laugh at his frenemy’s grumbling about who _he_ was forced to sit next to.  
Then, when the coachman asked the horse to ‘step out’, the larger than life cop did his best not to bump into his bench mate with every sway of their lightly bouncing ride. An endeavor which proved more difficult than he’d initially thought, considering how much bumpier it got when the smooth pavement gave way to cobblestones as the horse turned them down a beautiful, well shaded park path. 

Once the group up in the horse drawn conveyance got used to the novel motion of the thing, the not bumbling into each other got easier and everyone was freed up to put their attention on their surroundings.  
Hobbs couldn’t help but marvel at the sheer number of well manicured trees that lined each side of the impressive path. With all sorts of wrought iron benches set between every few, complimented by matching dark gray fences wreathed in all colors of climbing roses and some sort of invasive species of flowering ivy. 

When the detective gave a casual sideways blink, he realized that the impromptu, ‘you look like shit’, five minute, Hattie assisted makeup session had done absolute _wonders_ to cover the disturbing bruises all up the side of the middle Shaw’s face.  
Even so, Hobbs got the distinct feeling just looking at the dude that the Scrooge next to him could use a hug. Or at least a friendly arm around the shoulders. But, considering all that’d probably get him was his arm ripped off, Hobbs settled for the occasional tap to the guy’s closer side and a point off in the direction of something particularly interesting.

Like that mime couple on the tandem bicycle, pretending they were about to go over a particularly nasty cliff. Or that family teaching their dog to do trick catches with a ‘flaming’ frisbee. Or that bird nest with the four eggs nestled on top of an old candy wrapper. 

Somehow, none of those curiosities got a rise out of the spoil sport, but the detective in Hobbs was pretty sure he’d caught a tiny twitch of the lips when the mimes had executed a gorgeously choreographed prat fall. And broken the handlebars off their bike. 

That and the fact that Deck’s entire body had relaxed more the farther the carriage traveled had Hobbs pretty sure that the grouch was in fact, secretly, enjoying himself. A thing the cop had half expected the guy just plain didn’t do. **Ever**. 

Just before Hobbs had a chance to rib the guy about it too, a purposeful clearing of a throat drew all eyes to the senior carriage passenger. 

“So, Decksie, is it everything you dreamt it would be?” 

“Is _what_ ‘everything I dreamt it would be’, Mother?” 

“Don’t ‘Mother’ me, duckie, you bloody well know what I mean,” the saucy prima dona insisted with a haughty readjusting of her shawl. But when all she got for her troubles was a carriage full of uncomprehending looks, she rolled her eyes and started over.  
“Is this lovely ride through the park with your closest family and... work acquaintance everything you dreamt it would be?”

“No. It’s worse,” the spy groused, making a bit of a show of crossing his arms. To better express his utter contempt for the situation. 

Yep, Hobbs decided with a private smile, the way the spy was _barely_ scanning the tree line for ‘potential threats’; the way he kept ‘not’ glancing backward to catch a glimpse of the powerhouse single-hoofedly pulling them along that fine day; the way his trademark scowl didn’t seem quite as genuine as usual? Dead giveaways. The guy was **definitely** enjoying himself.  
Something the detective had confirmed when a quick glance the other Shaws’ way revealed neither of the women were particularly concerned over the guy’s maudlin answer. 

And for some reason Hobbs just couldn’t understand, he didn’t jump on the opportunity to make fun of his frenemy about it. Maybe because he was feeling mature that day, and maybe because he knew anybody going through the sort of thing the Brit was could use all the enjoyment they could get.  
Either way, the American found himself squashing both the impulse to antagonize as well as to tease the guy. Instead choosing to go on as he’d already been doing, pointing out fun little curiosities that might have otherwise gone unappreciated. Getting at least one more ghost smile for his troubles. 

Then, before the joyriders knew it, the carriage was back where it’d started and coming to a full and complete stop. At which time, the driver set the parking brake and the footman swung back down to offer her disembarking services. Hobbs staying up in the carriage longest to once again offer the same service from above. 

“Right then, everyone remember to give Missy a friendly pat before they leave,” the driver said as the footman helped the last and largest of their passengers down, turning more than a couple heads as he indicated the horse tossing her head out in front of the handsome buggy. “She likes to know she’s appreciated,” he tacked on when no one moved to comply. 

“Better do what the man says. Don’t want to offend a one ton beast of burden,” Hobbs reasoned as he hit solid ground, offering a sweep of a hand in said beast’s direction. 

“Oi, dipshit, she’s half that, _tops_,” Deckard said as he let his relations have first dibs at a footman supervised visit with the preening piebald. “Besides, it’s rude to discuss a lady’s weight,” the spy tacked on, watching his mother approach the ‘lady’ in question in a distinctly ‘does it bite?’ fashion. 

“Right, and since when did you give two shits about manners?” Hobbs asked, smirking good-naturedly along with the Shaw siblings as their maternal member gave the nickering horse a stiff pat on the neck. 

“I’ll have you know I give _plenty_ shits about manners. Just not where you’re concerned,” Deckard informed, only so distracted by the sight before them. 

“Oh, so I’m special then?” Hobbs asked holding back from bumping his frenemy’s shoulder when he remembered the side he was standing on was the guy’s injured one. 

“Yeah, the way a pothole’s ‘special’. You either avoid it, or curse it out the moment you run into it,” Deckard intoned with a satisfied nod. 

“Ooh, bet you’re proud of that one,” Hobbs observed as they watched the youngest Shaw give the friendly horse a good petting. “Hope you didn’t strain anything puttin’ it together.”

“I’m fine, thanks. But if you’d like, I’d gladly strain that steroid thickened neck of yours with a-“

“Decksie, I’m told this beast won’t be satisfied until _all_ her passengers give her a proper thank you!” Came the mother’s half-harried entreaty for backup. 

“Right, on my way,” the spy said as he moved forward with an overly casual gait. Not quite able to compensate though for the way his entire frame perked as he approached the animal. 

Soon Hobbs was watching the man introduce himself to the horse, trying to hide his face from view as he whispered to it and let it sniff his hand. Moving on to the petting stage soon as it nudged his arm in a greedy sort of way. 

“So, how’d you do it?” Asked a Hattie Hobbs hadn’t noticed sneak up beside him. 

“I slipped the driver an extra ten pounds and told him my friend had a soft spot for beautiful horses,” he informed in his least surprised voice. 

“Smooth,” the spy admitted under her breath as her mother came to stand with them. 

“Oh, look at ‘im, Hattie,” Magdalene all but cooed as she hugged her stole tighter around her shoulders. “When’s the last time you saw him make that face? So innocent and happy?”

“Couple’a weeks ago. Back on Samoa, actually,” the sister said, face a mask of studious contemplation when Hobbs glanced to check.

“They have horses on Samoa?” Asked the mother of spies, face a mask of dubious curiosity. 

“Just one. Healthiest you ever met. Strongest too,” Hattie said, sounding eerily like she was trying to insinuate something. Worrying Hobbs when she gave him a look that corroborated that. 

“Hm, place can’t be all bad then. Even if it is bloomin’ hot three hundred fifty days out of the year,” the senior Shaw allowed with a prim sniff. 

Then, with the quick approach of one pretending not to be considerably happier than he’d been just earlier, the three by the carriage pretended they hadn’t just been gossiping and looked to their returning member expectantly. 

“Right then. Let’s get lunch,” he suggested with a scowl it looked like was taking actual effort to keep in place. 

“Good idea,” Hobbs agreed, holding up a finger before the group could turn to depart. “Right after I give Missy over there a good petting.”

“Fine, but mind you don’t spook her with your hulking, unnaturally muscled physique,” warned the Brit trying to pass off an honestly kinda contented look for one of his more normal impatient ones. 

“Don’t worry, animals love me,” the American assured with a winning smile. A winning smile which, for once, didn’t win him a withering glare. Just three, matching, dubious looks and a couple pleas to ‘get on with it then. We’re starving.’

So with a private chuckle, the guy having a better time than even he’d expected walked off to do just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awww, Hobbs trying to cheer up his frenemy? Well, I guess that’s technically what he’s been trying to do this whole time, but at least it looks like it’s starting to work now! :D


	12. Lunch With The Shaws

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like grabbing lunch with friends! Hopefully it’s good with frenemies too!

Lunch with the Shaws turned out not to be nearly as weird or dangerous as Hobbs had been expecting.  
No knives thrown for the hell of it, no threatening the wait staff for jollies, and no having to defend themselves from vicious surprise attacks.

Basically just a normal, everyday family lunch date. Plus one frenemy who kept getting funny looks for his height. And build. And obvious American-ness.

Yep, after enjoying a generously proportioned, family-sized, pesto pizza —along with a decent side order of ‘chips’—, Hobbs had sat back and watched the other three finish off their dishes. Taking note when he caught the frenemy across from him casually set his used ‘serviette’ on top a definitely-not-finished portion of alfredo linguine.  
Deciding it was always possible the guy was still full from the breakfast in bed he’d been treated to, the detective let it go for the moment and proceeded to laugh along with the rest of the table when the last of Hattie’s lasagna decided it wanted to hitch a ride on her chin.

After a quick game of ‘nope, a little to your left. Almost got it,’ Hattie’s face was once again clean. So, with Magdalene insisting to cover the tab, the four of them stood and took off for a leisurely, digestive walk down the shopping boulevard and out to another, smaller park. Where Hattie and Hobbs promptly forgot how full they’d just been and bought a gelato each from a passing bicycle vendor.

Magdalene ended up enjoying the treat more than her daughter did when the half eaten thing was passed over to her. Hobbs though took one look at his frenemy and just knew that an offer for a taste of his frozen confection would be met with animosity. Or the guy’s ‘good mood’ equivalent, anyhow. So he finished the thing and tossed the group’s trash in a convenient receptacle off to one side.

The group naturally gravitated to silence as a small play gym revealed itself off to one side. Children crawling all over the obstacles and sliding down corkscrew slides while gaggles of parents kept watch from any of the nearby benches.

The scene had Hobbs wondering whether the other park they’d taken a scenic horse-drawn carriage ride through was also equipped with something similar. A fun draw for the local young families.

They passed up the spectacle without comment, Hobbs just enjoying the reminder that even in a city as plagued by terrible weather as London, people still managed to find things that made them and theirs happy.  
It was just a shame those things happened to be outside, the cop thought with a private chuckle.

The group kept up the comfortable quiet, walking in a leisurely spread across the path and, to Hobbs’ surprise, not needing to bunch together to allow others to pass them.  
Must have been a slow day at the park, the detective mused, giving the shrubby trees by the path a curious study as they walked by.

“Well, it’s been great fun, all,” started the spy who’d spent the better part of the last minute typing nonstop into her phone, “but there’s a fresh shit storm brewing at work and —**obviously**— my wanker of a supervisor is insisting that I’m the only one who can _possibly_ handle it. So —_of course_— he’s taken the liberty of sending a car to pick me up.”

“What a douche,” the foreigner among them offered with a commiserative shake of his head.

“Well, at least you don’t have to pay for a cab,” the brother among them offered with an unconcerned shrug.

“Shut it, Decks,” the sister said as she pulled ahead of the pack, offering her phone a few choice words of displeasure before shoving it in her deepest pocket. Then, after a deep breath, the disgruntled spy turned to the rest of them and addressed them together.  
“Right, so I’ve got to go in for a few hours, but I think all of our schedules allow for another cozy little get-together In the next couple days, so I’ll text as soon as this whole mess’s blown over. Meanwhile, don’t answer the door if you don’t know who it is, and **don’t** turn on the telly.”

“No sweat, Hattie, we’ll- Wait, _what_ about the TV?” Asked a Hobbs who was suddenly a little less confident in their safety. Out in the open like they were. 

“Sweetie, is there something we should know about?” Asked the mother who’d been content to that point to simply observe her daughter having her little work crisis.

“Not if you don’t turn on the telly,” the spy said as she took back off down their current path for what was likely the edge of the park opposite where they’d entered. “Don’t worry, if all goes swimmingly —which it _will_ since I’m now apparently on the bloody case—, then by tomorrow no one will even remember there was a leak.”

“Leak?” Repeated the other spy in their midst. “What’re-“

“Can’t talk about it,” the Hattie practically jogging by that point threw over her shoulder. “Classified,” the only explanation she gave the three struggling to keep up with her determined, angry pace.

“Well, stay safe and catch a cat nap if you can. We’re rootin’ for ya,” Hobbs assured as the edge of the park came into view around a bend in the path.

“Same for you,” Hattie said in a rather distracted manner, busy digging a suddenly buzzing phone from the depths of her coat’s deep pocket. “Bloody hell,” all she said after giving the screen a near comical double take.

“What?” The elder Shaw sibling asked, tone possessing a distinct ‘who should I maim?’ overtone.

“The prick’s trying to prove he’s not a _complete_ bastard? **Now**?”

“What is it, duckie? What’s he gone and done?” Asked the woman in the heels Hobbs was surprised were holding up to all the fast-walking.

“He’s sent cars for you. Says they’ll take you wherever you’d like to go. No questions asked,” the spy informed, giving a dumbfounded glance her company’s way as she reached the street and stopped on the curb.

“Ooh, I like the sound of that,” Magdalene practically purred from where she’d stopped to fan herself with the end of her shall.

“You _would_, Mother,” intoned a Deck who Hobbs was pretty sure was more out of breath than their impromptu hike had any right to have made him. “Lemme guess, you’ve got ‘business’ in the area?” The son asked, trying and nearly succeeding at passing off the slight flush as a side effect of healthy excitability.

Hobbs still noticed the others give the guy the odd, concerned glance. Before exchanging furtive ones between themselves. And then him too.  
The cop gave the women a reassuring nod each, hoping to put them at ease as much as he was able.

“Just a spot, on the other side of town, duckie. You always were a smart boy,” the seasoned ‘entrepreneur’ said through the quick, three-way exchange.

“Right, and you’ve always been keen to make a profit. Figured you wouldn’t visit without a little something lined up on the side.”

“Oh, Decksie, now that’s just rude! Didn’t you’re mother teach you how to talk to a lady?” The mother in questioned chastised with an affronted sniff.

“Hm? What? Only lady I see round here’s hoppin’ into an unmarked, blackout windowed car,” said the son, redirecting attention to where Hattie was indeed doing exactly that.

“Sorry, I’d _love_ to stay and help with the argument, but duty calls,” called the daughter sliding into the back seat of a muscled up, government issue sedan. In an ‘every spy for themselves’ sort of way.  
“See you sometime in the next forty eight hours!”

And with a wave the door was shut and the reason they were even out that day at all sped off to parts unknown to clean up somebody else’s mess.

“What was that about your own mother not being a lady, Decksie,” cooed the woman suddenly sporting an unnaturally sharp smile.

“No ‘lady’ I ever heard of makes her money on black market trades, illegal gambling, and drug trafficking,” Deck challenged, surprising Hobbs with how close to chiding it came out.

“Oh, you’re one to talk,” Magdalene challenged right on back. “Not like you’ve kept your hands clean these past years, duckie.”

“Not like I’ve had much choice, _Mother_,” quipped the son with the narrowing eyes.

“Right, but you’re still a gentleman because killing people for money’s _so_ much more noble than what I get up to?”

“Never said I was a gentleman,” Deckard informed, shoulders tightening just enough that Hobbs noticed the change.

“Right, just that I wasn’t a proper lady for trying to keep myself in comfort? Do you even know what I _do_ with all those ungodly sums of money I swindle off those black-hearted buggers?“

“No, Mother, please elucidate for the class,” the rather worked up ex-assassin said with a sweep of his arm toward himself as well as Hobbs. A Hobbs who wasn’t strictly comfortable being roped into such a heated family ‘conversation’.

Thankfully, the English folk were interrupted from their stare down by the smooth approach of two cars, identical to the one that’d picked up their fourth member not two minutes earlier.

“You know what, duckie, I think this lady’s had enough of you takin’ out your frustrations on her for one day” Magdalene informed with a stiff readjusting of her shawl.  
“Agent Hobbs?” She restarted, whipping a sharp turn of her head the American’s way. Him managing to change a flinch into a nod in the nick of time. “Don’t let him run you off now,” the mother instructed, tone somewhere between serious and wry. 

“No worries there, Mrs. Shaw,” the cop assured with another nod. Wondering whether that might somehow be her way of asking him to keep an eye on her brooding boy.

“It’s _Ms._ Shaw or Magdalene, and I’ll see the two of you soon. Ta-ta.”

And with a quick tug on the door, Magdalene was in the car and off to see to whatever business it was the wheeler and dealer had lined up.

“Uh, okay, that was awkward,” Hobbs offered, hoping to diffuse some of the residual stiffness in the air.

“Eh, you should see us when we actually have something to fight over,” the last remaining Shaw said, rubbing a hand over his face in a frustrated move before heaving a sigh. Shoulders relaxing as the second of the government provided vehicles turned a corner and out of sight.

“Well, at least we’re getting a free ride out of it,” Hobbs offered, motioning towards the completely black car idling a stone’s throw away. “Anyplace you wanted to go?” He asked the guy with the sour expression. 

“Home. A place where, by the way, _you_ should be well on your way back to by now,” the curmudgeon insisted as he moved to pry open the car’s rear passenger door.

“Wow, I wasn’t expecting it so soon,” Hobbs started, following his frenemy to the side of the car. “But if that’s what you really want?” 

“Absolutely,” confirmed the spy with his hand gripping the open car door. 

“In that case,” Hobbs said, moving to bring himself close before continuing, “I’d be glad to spend the night again.”

“**Goodbye**, Hobbs,” Deckard hissed, attempting to slam the door shut behind his sudden snake into the back seat. 

Unfortunately for him, Hobbs, utilizing some wicked reflexes, caught the door by the shutting edge and held it there easily. Sliding himself in behind the guy when it didn’t look like the move would get him dismembered.

“In case you haven’t noticed, the men in black only sent the one car for the two of us,” Hobbs pointed out in a voice he just _knew_ was gonna rub wrong.

“Bollocks,” the still riled up Brit intoned. Crossing his arms and jamming himself as far to the opposite side of the back seat as humanly possible. Not bothering with the seatbelt, to Hobbs’ unvoiced chagrin.

When it was more than a few blocks into their private ride and the guy with a lick of automobile safety noticed his frenemy’s breathing hadn’t yet slowed to its natural resting pace, the detective on the other side of the bench went on the sleuth.  
“Is it time for your meds?” Hobbs asked on a discreet murmur.

“No. Had it this morning,” the guy said even quieter, obviously not wanting their chauffeur overhearing.

“Was the walking too much? ‘Cause I can make sure we don’t do that again if-“

“Piss. _Off_.” The choice words that ended that particular conversation. Leaving Hobbs no choice but to apply his powers of observation and draw his own conclusions. As per the usual.

So, being as inconspicuous as possible when cramped together in the back of a barely mid-sized car, the detective took a moment to study his frenemy. Taking note right quick that the heightened respiration rate was in fact going through a gradual, though belated, calm down phase. Good sign.  
Next, he passed off leaning in for a closer look as him ducking to peer out the other guy’s window at a choice piece of ‘historical London masonry’. Noticing, with his quick inspection, just enough moisture on the guy’s forehead to qualify as a light sweat. Less good sign.

Deciding, based on the facts, that Shaw was going to be fine, at least for the time being, Hobbs figured he could spend the next few minutes _actually_ enjoying the ancientness of the stone buildings that cropped up every now and again to either side of their current route.  
After all, how often did he land a gig in London?

Before long, the car came to a stop at the front entrance of a dingy apartment complex and Hobbs couldn’t help but feel like he’d seen the thing before. Near Deckard’s home. But that couldn’t be right, because neither of the passengers had told the chauffeur where it was they’d wanted to go.

Two heads whipped forward for answers, the bodies attached to them staying any instinctive pounces when the person in the front seat offered the information free of charge.

“Agent Shaw reported that you’d want to be dropped here.” The only explanation given as the driver sat looking forward with both hands in plain sight on his wheel.

“Know it all,” the other Agent Shaw grumbled, unscrunching himself from the door. Hobbs not sure weather he’d been referring to the man in black, or his own sister.

“Thanks, Jeeves, have a good one,” the one with even a hint of tact offered as they disembarked. Stepping quick to keep up with the guy who looked _more_ than ready to lock and bar his front door behind him. Not interested in having to put his breaking and entering skills to use that particular afternoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitely not normal for a walk and an argument to leave Shaw out of breath like that. Hopefully Hobbs can get to the bottom of it! Without getting punched.


	13. Tea Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our intrepid frenemies are back at home and no one's locked out. What kind of trouble will these two be getting into next?

Locking the door behind them and turning to face the foyer, the detective was pleased to see the spy glowering over at him looking once again close to his new normal: pale, gaunt, and ornery, but no longer out of breath or actively sweating.  
Then, with the guy giving one more good glare before turning on a heel and heading back to his room, throwing a quick "Shower. Interrupt me and it’s your left hand," over his shoulder, Hobbs figured he could take the liberty of starting on his host’s freshest paper. Going straight for the funnies when all the headlines talked about was ‘Parliament this’ and ‘the Euro that’.  
Was enough to give any American a headache, Hobbs thought with a chuckle as he sat at the kitchen island and flipped the periodical around to the fun side.

Several good chuckles later and he’d finished with the cartoon covered collage. So, resigned to an entertainment-less remainder of his afternoon, he set the now satisfactorily ‘read’ paper on the tabletop and sighed. Finding himself thoroughly surprised when, about half a second later, the phone in his pocket vibrated. He pulled the thing out **quick**, knowing instinctively who’d be calling that time of day.

“Sam, oh thank God, and here I thought I wasn’t gonna talk to a single sane person today!” Hobbs said as he picked up the video call, holding the phone out in front of himself for better chat position.

“Is London _that_ bad?” Asked the voice Hobbs’d been waiting _hours_ to hear.

“Oh you better believe it,” the dad said with an emphatic nod. “Everyone walking around here’s either yelling at or ignoring each other, the traffic is _unbelievably_ bad, and the price of food and housing is straight up **criminal**.”

“So, like here?” Posited the kid with the adorable bed head.

“Yep. Just like home. Except with worse weather,” the LA parent confirmed with a proud nod.

“So —big surprise— London sucks and you wish you were home?” Sam summarized, giving a smile when she got a second nod.

“You know I’d always rather be home with my baby girl,” Hobbs assured with a smile of his own.

“I know,” said the pajama sporting early riser, looking like she felt the same. “But, about London,” she restarted with a small yawn, “how’s your work friend?”

“Really, _really_ annoying,” Hobbs answered with an exaggerated tilt to his eyebrows. Breaking out in a big smile when the light of his life rolled her eyes at him.

“That’s not what I meant! I mean, is he okay? Were you right about how someone ‘must’ve realized they could do way better than that sarcastic limey git and dumped his butt **hard**’?” The youngster asked with a mirroring tilt of her own brow. 

“Sam, what did we agree on about repeating things I say about others in confidence?” The father prompted at said youngster’s indiscretion.

“To not do it when we video call and one of us is at the subject’s house?” She said with an ever so slightly apologetic face.

“That’s my girl. Nice impression, by the way,” the father said, just a hair worried for the day his baby’d have it down well enough to call herself out sick from school.

“Thanks! Agent Locke says I sound **exactly** like you, so I figured I might as well flex it,” Sam informed, chest puffing as she grinned.

“Wait, has that bonehead been bothering you? ‘Cause I _told_ him what he’d be ordering up if he distracted you from your schoolwork,” Hobbs asked, sitting up straighter at the thought.

“No, Daddy, he hasn’t called since that time he said he stabbed someone with a brick,” the baby Hobbs assured, sounding confused as her little eyebrows knitted together, just for a second. “Besides, _I_ think he’s funny.”

“Oh, I’ll bet _he_ thinks he’s funny too, but that’ll change real fast when he opens up his lunchbox and finds all his mama packed him was a knuckle sandwich. Compliments me,” the bodybuilder said, careful to keep his protectiveness as lighthearted as possible. 

“Dad,” his angel chastised with a wrinkle of her nose, “he’s not _that_ bad.”

“You’re right, kiddo. He’s worse,” Hobbs said, in just the right way to get him a giggle. “But I suppose, so long as he calls me and not you, he can have regular old PB&J.”

“I think he’s more of a bologna kinda guy,” the child on the other side of the world mused into her phone screen.

“You know what? I think you’re right; that guy’s practically _made_ of bologna,” Hobbs chided, getting another giggle for his efforts.

“Wait, I didn’t call to talk about Agent Locke,” Sam said amid the amusement. “I asked about Agent Shaw. You know, the bald spy with the funny accent who’s not _nearly_ as pretty as his sister who’s also called Agent Shaw?”

“Hey, Agent Shaw number one’s got his positives too,” Hobbs admonished with a teeny tiny frown. The kind he knew his daughter always thought was funny on him.

“Like what? That he can annoy you _even more_ than Agent Locke and Agent Shaw number two put together? ‘Cause I’m not sure that counts as a positive,” the little Hobbs posited, brows puckered in concern for her father’s sanity.

“No, baby girl, I mean things like...” Hobbs tried not to sweat as he found himself grasping at mental straws, suddenly realizing that ‘he makes me laugh’ or ‘the jerk’s actually kinda fun once you get used to him’ probably weren’t the kind of examples Sam was looking for. The detective gave a snap though when he lit upon something that sounded appropriate. “Like the fact that he managed to keep up and help me save the world.”

“But didn’t Agent Shaw number two also do that?” Sam asked with that same look on her face.

“Uh, yeah, she did,” Hobbs admitted, not sure where to go from there.

“Oi, what’s with all the racket in here? Sounds like the bloody House of Commons is in session,” demanded a moody Brit as he made his way in the kitchen, pausing for a second at the sight of his guest video chatting with his guest’s only child.  
Then the spy nodded at the tiny human on the phone screen and made his way over to the piece of kitchen between the stove and the sink. Obviously intent on heating some water for a cup of his country’s favorite drink.

“Oh, gimme a sec, I can get that,” Hobbs offered, honestly a little concerned the guy might strain something if he didn’t step in. On account of that cringe he caught when the empty kettle was pulled out from its resting spot.

“You’re American, how would you know the first thing about making tea?” Shaw asked, managing to make it sound natural even though Hobbs was **sure** he’d seen the guy physically holding back no fewer than two curses. No doubt on account of the child staring at him through his houseguest’s phone screen.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry, Agent Shaw,” came a young voice suddenly undercut by an obvious thread of fear, every shred of lightheartedness completely forgotten. Causing both adults to whip their full attention to the screen. “I would never have made fun of you behind your back by copying my dad if I knew it was **that** bad.”

“Knew _what_ was that bad, duck?” Shaw asked, abandoning his heating water in favor of stepping closer to the phone. Frowning some when Sam didn’t immediately explain, preoccupied with staring wide eyed at her father’s work friend. And the sling he was wearing.

“Are you... dying?” The question which had the expectant Brit flinching. Only noticeable because Hobbs had been paying attention. And flinched himself. “Is that why my dad didn’t wanna talk about how you were doing?” Came the second question from a suddenly distraught Sam. “Is that why he’s staying at your house even though he said he was just gonna go over there to cheer you up?”

The quavering bottom lip at the end had Hobbs pushing his way back into the camera’s eye.  
“No, baby girl, this guy’s tougher’n nails, just like your old man. He’s never gonna die,” Hobbs found himself saying, strangely unsure exactly who out of the three of them he was trying to reassure more with the words.

“Look, Mini Hobbs, I don’t know what kind of freak your dad is, but this is how you’re _supposed_ to look after saving the world. You’re just plain lucky enough not to be used to it already,” the spy commiserated in a voice the detective barely recognized. It being even less confrontational than the one he’d heard the Brit use on his well-wishing relations.

“So... you’re not **literally** dying _right_ now?” Asked the youngster staring into the virtual stranger’s kitchen.

“If I was, I wouldn’t be spending my precious remaining time hangin’ out with your old man, now would I?” The cantankerous spy assured, jabbing a thumb said ‘old man’s’ way.

“Um, I don’t know you well enough to answer that question,” admitted the almost-tween with the creased brow.

“Huh, look at that,” Deck started with a chuckle, Hobbs junior’s already savvier than Hobbs senior.”

“Hey, my dad’s the top agent in his field,” came an indignant protestation.

“Hm, must not be stiff competition then,” The guy who seemed to have forgotten exactly who was holding the phone chided.

Hobbs watched in parental interest as well as concern as his daughter readied for a comeback, glanced down to what must have been Deck’s injured side, and decided against it.

“What, don’t tell me you’ve never seen one of these before?” The Brit asked, indicating the sling he was probably regretting having put back on. “Where I come from, it’s a badge of honor. Proof you went out and _did_ something.”

“Like your face?” Asked the minuscule American, tone meeker than Hobbs liked to hear it. 

“What, this?” Shaw said with a gesture at his no longer makeup covered bruises. “You should see the other guy.”

“Um, I’m glad you’re... alright,” Sam said with much dubiousness as she gave a glance to somewhere out of frame, “but Aunt Lisa says I need to get ready for school now, so don’t fight with my dad, okay?”

“Can’t make any promises, princess,” admitted the spy, tone more chiding than challenging. 

“...Right. Bye Dad,” the arguably less worried youngster said, attention sliding reluctantly back her father’s way.

“Have fun at school, baby,” Hobbs said, trying not to worry himself at the smaller than usual smile Sam ended the call with.

Deciding to stow his fatherly concern until their next video call, Hobbs slipped the phone in its pocket and turned to the other adult in the room, eyes just a little wider than usual.  
“I never —not in a _million_ years— would’a pegged you as the ‘good with kids’ type,” the detective informed, incredulous stare leveled at the guy who only then seemed to remember he’d come in there to make tea.

“You’ve met our Mommie Dearest,” Shaw said with a shrug, turning off his stove in the same motion. “Dear old Dad was worse; only two things he cared about were money and the ‘family name’. Someone in that madhouse needed to take care of Hattie ‘n’ Owen,” the spy said, pouring the just hot enough water over his sachet and settling in to watch it steep.

“Wait, so Magdalene wasn’t a good mom to you three?” Hobbs asked the guy’s back, not sure how to reconcile the idea with the woman who’d appeared to him to be both caring and protective towards her children. If, admittedly, a little rough around the edges. And a black market gangster.

“It’s more that she wasn’t around enough to make up for her husband’s... insufficiencies. Was probably our fault for not tellin’ her about it, honestly,” Shaw mused, still staring at his cup of steaming leaf water. “She’d’ve gotten him put away a lot sooner if we had,” he said with a half whimsical chuckle.

“No way, man, you’re own mom got your dad arrested? But isn’t she some kind of _criminal_ mastermind?” The detective asked the back of his frenemy’s head.

“Yeah. That’s how she got him put away.”

“What? You mean he wasn’t guilty?”

“Oh, he was _plenty_ guilty. Just not of what they put him away for,” Shaw explained. Voice sounding purposefully neutral.

“And he hasn’t broken out? Or been released for whatever he got nabbed for?” Hobbs asked, wondering what the heck kind of sentence the guy could have gotten to not be out by then.

“He didn’t last too long in the big house. Pissed off too many of the wrong people,” Shaw said, far more plainly than Hobbs would have expected for such words.

To that, the LA cop gave himself a moment to think. Wondering as to just how much love must have been lost between the father and family for incarceration and subsequent death to be spoken of _more_ casually than the weather.  
Whole thing was starting to sound uncomfortably like his own formative years.

Didn’t take long before Shaw turned around, tea cup close at hand, and gave him a look that was difficult to decipher.  
“No offense to you daughter, Hobbs, but that kid of yours seems to be afflicted by a serious case of the old hero worship. Might wanna get on that.”

“Oh, so a kid’s not allowed to think their dad’s invincible?” The dad in question challenged with a raise of one brow.

“Never said that,” Shaw defended, pulling the sachet from his porcelain cup with his bare fingers. Before squeezing the trapped liquid back into his fresh brewed drink. “Just might wanna let her know that even the toughest of us can get hurt. And stay that way,” he tacked on, probably in what he thought was an ‘under his breath’ volume.

“That kid’s more savvy than you’re giving her credit for,” Hobbs insisted as he watched the spy toss the crumpled sachet off toward the kitchen trash receptacle. “‘Sides, she’s seen me in a cast,” he concluded as the thing sailed right in the top and thunked lightly to the bottom.

“Yeah, for four days,” Shaw offered with a snort. Not bothering with a sweetener that time as he picked up his lightly steaming cup. 

“Uh, _two_ days, and I’m not seeing your point,” Hobbs argued, rising to the bait with an eager sort of indignance.

“That her expectations of the human race are more than a little skewed by having _you_ as her primary example,” Shaw explained, obscuring a rather smug look by taking a good sip from his hot drink.

“What? Just because I’m strong and unusually charming?” 

“More like incredibly thick-skulled and one hell of an incorrigible sycophant,” the Brit said with a scoff that sounded strangely close to a chuckle.

“Naw, man, you got me all wrong,” Hobbs insisted with a gesture of his arms. “When I do something, I don’t do it to make people like me; I do it because I _want_ to. End of story.”

“So you’re telling me that you took a dozen-plus hour plane ride that’s keeping you away from your daughter, cleaned my house, put up with my insufferable family, and are **still** here... all because you ‘_want_ to’?”

“Yeah, Deck. I‘m here to help. Any way I can. After all: no one deserves to go through something like what you got dished out. Especially not without a good friend in their corner.”

The way Shaw averted his entire face at the sentiment, tea cup that time coming up simply to hide his expression, Hobbs knew he’d struck some sort of nerve. And as the ex-assassin made his way from the room, making obvious his preference for privacy, he knew he was going to have to find out exactly what nerve that was.  
Whether Deckard wanted him to or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? Deck knows how to talk to kids? I guess that might help explain why his younger siblings like him as much as they do. They were once a happy little family!  
Hope folks liked Sam and her concerned video chat! :D


	14. Appetite Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What are these two going to do with the rest of their day? Bond? Ignore each other? Fight to the death?  
Guess we’ll just have to hope for the best.

Hobbs, not wanting to smother but interested in seeing what his frenemy might be up to next, gave it all of two minutes before following the fellow who he soon found was simply finishing off his afternoon tea from the comfort of his ancient couch. 

He watched as the guy set the little breakable cup on the spindly side table and settled himself deeper into the cushions. Resolutely not looking at his guest no matter how obvious Hobbs was making his bid for attention.  
Eventually the DSS agent decided to just clear his throat and hope the other guy didn’t resent his presence. 

“Hey, uh, feel free to tell me to ‘piss off’ or whatever,” Hobbs opened, tone approaching careful, “but, uh, I was wondering: this morning, what had you so up in arms over the fourteen hour siesta?” 

“Nothing. Just... reminded me of something,” said the spy staring off into the middle distance. Soon as he’d had time to process the out of place question. 

“The kind of ‘something’ you wanna talk about?” Hobbs prodded with just a hint of hope. 

“...Was a long time ago,” came the sole explanation. Not near as defensive as Hobbs might’ve expected, even as the statement’s finality was utterly apparent. 

“Uh, okay, but just so you know, I’m an avid student of ancient history,” Hobbs insisted. And the fact that Deck didn’t snatch up and _throw_ his teacup at him for it had Hobbs teetering on the edge between being pleased and being worried. After all, he’d been **sure** that was gonna get a rise out of him.  
Instead, it got him a halfhearted groan. Followed by a lackluster eye roll. 

Still, better than nothing. And, whether the guy actually _believed_ him or not, he knew the message had been received. So with a chiding raise of his brow, he put his hands on his hips and started a new line of questioning.  
“Well, what you wanna do now that you’ve had your precious ‘tea time’? We could make dinner plans or get started on-“

“What’s this ‘we’ tripe?” The guy on the couch cut him off, swinging his legs up and rearranging himself into more of a reclining position as he gave his houseguest an accusatory eyeing. “_I’m_ takin’ a nap. Bloody knackered after that deplorable excuse for a ‘family bonding experience’.”

“Oh, alright then. Enjoy the shut-eye. I’ll just go entertain myself with some good old-fashioned, back breaking manual labor. Y’know, like I’ve been doing since I got here. For _free_,” the houseguest with the heart of gold reminded, face breaking into a wry smirk. 

“Don’t even _think_ about touching my stuff, Hobbs,” the ex-assassin warned with a one eyed leer. Looking almost like he might be half asleep already. 

“If your stuff’s a mess, it’s getting touched,” Hobbs warned as he turned from the strangely... _not_ intimidating sight, intent on-

“Where’re you going, Luke?” 

The edge to the question had the detective pausing in his tracks, not bothering to look back as he did.  
“By the looks of things, you’re out of clean clothes,” he offered in a matter of fact way. Considering the guy was back to wearing the same ridiculous ‘pj’ set he’d spent the last who knows how many days in. “_You’re_ obviously not doing anything about it, so _I’m_ doing laundry.”

“Psh, gonna need a new wardrobe when you’re through with it.”

The part-time maid relaxed at the put-down, then glanced over his shoulder when the next thing he heard was an out of place... snuffle, of all things. 

Oh. Deck was sleeping. Cool. Hobbs could work with that. Gave him something solid to update Hattie about, the LA watchdog thought as he slipped out his phone to do just that. 

‘Your brother had some tea then passed out for a nap. I think the walking tired him out.’

‘I’m fuck busy. Keep me posted.’ Came the lightning fast reply. Followed by a little typing icon which stayed put for what felt like ages before changing into a second, shorter message.  
‘Thanks.’

“Woah, never thought I’d see the day,” Hobbs marveled. Typing back a quick, ‘No prob,’ as he made his way for the bedroom and the arm fulls of clothes he’d cleared off the floor just that morning. 

Before the detective could make any progress on the matter though, he was hit with an entirely new matter of concern. In the form of a serving tray left forgotten and half full on his host’s bed; once fluffy eggs crusted and dried next to a few, filmed over, forlorn ounces of coffee and a _long_ since staled, partial slice of buttered toast. 

Yikes. Now he understood why the guy was walking around looking one foot in the grave: he hadn’t been sleeping _or_ eating right. By the looks of it, not for a while.  
Explained all the half-eaten takeout he’d had to toss the day before, Hobbs figured with a sigh. 

The man on a mission decided to clear the mess waiting to happen out of there before getting started on the laundry for the afternoon. Seeing as he wasn’t interested in having to clean an entire set of linens on account of _someone_ not finishing his breakfast. 

“No wonder he couldn’t take the walking,” the detective mused to himself, arms laden with the tray of leftovers as he made his way back toward the kitchen. Tiptoeing his way through the living room when the sounds of snoozing reminded him someone was currently sleeping in there. 

With his quick, assessing, passing glance at the lax figure on the couch, Hobbs couldn’t bring himself to feel rightly affronted that his delicious breakfast spread hadn’t been given the respect it deserved. Figured it wouldn’t be right to give Shaw a hard time about it after the guy’d tuckered himself out keeping up with his well-meaning, _worried_ family.  
No, he’d just have to make sure his host was getting his daily nutritional needs met whether the spy was feeling hungry or not. And if that didn’t work, he could always give Hattie a call. 

Not that he’d _want_ to heap even **more** stress on the superhuman sister’s plate. Not unless strictly necessary. After all, he was there to make things more manageable, not make a fuss over matters he could do something about himself. And, being the part-time nutritionist he was, this was _definitely_ a matter he could do something about himself. 

So Hobbs, figuring that as fast as Deck’d gone to sleep, the guy’d be out for a good while, gave himself permission to set the washer he’d found tucked away in a tiny closet to a medium capacity cycle and indulge himself in a nice, relaxing little walk. To the nearest dry cleaner’s. Or, the _second_ nearest dry cleaner’s, anyway. Just to be considerate of his spy host’s paranoid sensibilities. 

Several minutes later, Hobbs let the jingle of the front door’s bell usher him from the friendly little shop and he took a moment to breathe in the semi-fresh air of the old neighborhood’s overcast early evening. There, with a nice lungful of another country’s modest attempt at vehicular decongestion, Hobbs surveyed the street with a lazy sort of curiosity. Attention soon caught by a simple, wooden, fold-out sidewalk sign about a block and a half over.  
The part that caught his interest though? The single, hand-painted word sitting _slightly_ off from the sign’s center: Grocer’s. 

Decision reached, the pro bono personal assistant made his way over to the storefront, sauntered himself in through the door, and proceeded to be surprised at the more than decent selection staring back at him. Far more to choose from than he’d have expected from a local grocery mart. Especially one which appeared to not have more than three employees. Maybe even fewer if one of those apron sporting folks turned out to be a towny with a funky fashion sense; sniffing the apples one by one before arranging them into a painstaking but _totally_ worth it pyramid shape on their wooden, countertop display. For the fun of it. 

With a chuckle, Hobbs grabbed a handbasket and set to giving the shop a good perusal. 

Next to no time later, laden with food, food ingredients, and a receipt for the dry cleaning that’d be ready for pickup in the morning, the tourist headed back to his temporary crash pad and sighed in relief when his key still fit the lock. 

Shouldering his way in though, he chuckled at the situation’s ridiculousness, knowing that, had he been staying at just about any other house on the planet, such a thing wouldn’t have been any sort of a legitimate concern. 

‘Spys’, he thought with a good natured roll of the eyes as he locked the door behind him. Sure to be quiet when he turned and made for the kitchen with his bag full of goodies. Not wanting to disturb the- Hm. The guy who _wasn’t_ sleeping on his couch anymore.  
Strange, considering how beat Shaw’d seemed when he’d left. And the fact that the American errand boy hadn’t even been gone all that long. 

Wasn’t in the kitchen either, Hobbs discovered as he made for the fridge and popped the thing open. Figuring he better put away anything that could go bad if left out before going on a full-blown manhunt for his AWOL host. 

About the time he situated the last item into its new home, a loud beep sounded from the direction of the discrete laundry room, informing Hobbs that he’d gotten back right on time for the end of the wash cycle. And in perfect time to switch the soggy laundry over to the matching energy efficient dryer. 

Pressing the button that made the machine do its thing, the LA gumshoe decided on his next destination: the London hitman’s Zen garden. After all, that’s where he’d found him the same-ish time the day before.  
So Hobbs closed the laundry room door and turned for the kitchen, seeing as that was the only way through to the place he was going next. 

As he turned the corner into the cooking room though, Hobbs was brought up short by the sight of someone directly across from him being brought up short by the sight of him. 

Like some sort of weird doppelgängers, both figures stopped at opposite ends of the same room, giving each other a quick once over before the one closer to the garden broke the silence. 

“So you’re _not_ gone then?” Demanded a Deck Hobbs might have expected to sound a hair closer to disappointed. Or annoyed. Not that strange mix of nonplussed and... disbelieving.  
_That_ he had no idea what to do with. 

So he plastered on a chiding grin and leaned against the kitchen door frame. Hoping to dispel whatever kind of funk he’d found his frenemy in.  
“Nope. Can’t leave till this place is spotless and _staying_ that way, and judging by how it looked when I got here, that’s not happening anytime soon.” 

To that, the spy said nothing. Only narrowed his eyes and considered the man across from him. The look stuck on his face almost accusatory.  
Hobbs kept up the grin and did the same right on back. 

Eventually, seemingly satisfied with the stare down, Deckard made for the closest island chair and took it, movements far more stiff than any self-respecting international spy would ever allow in public.  
Hobbs, not sure whether the candidness should be taken as a positive or a negative, made for the refrigerator. Grabbing down the ridiculous cereal box when the guy in obvious physical discomfort nodded towards it.  
Then, before taking the thing to the table, he reached inside the cold storage unit and grabbed out a bottle of something he’d been surprised to find at the little market. 

“Already told you, Hobbs: I’m knackered, not hungry,” the guy said, practically on automatic. Seeing as he wasn’t even **looking** at what his houseguest was bringing over. Suddenly too busy rubbing at his face to bother, apparently. 

“Dude, give peach a chance,” Hobbs insisted, gesturing at the picture of a halved peach on the bottle’s label. Glad when it got Shaw to _look_ at the thing. “‘Sides, meds on an empty stomach doesn’t sound like the best idea,” the detective added, setting the bottle in front of his host even as the guy gave it a good, hard glare. 

“The hell is this?” Asked a somebody who sounded like he wasn’t interested in playing a friendly game of twenty questions. 

“Nutritious for one,” Hobbs informed, barely restraining a chuckle at the affronted look crawling farther up the other guy’s face the longer he stared at the thing. 

“‘Meal replacement’? What, like I can’t feed myself?” Deck challenged, leveling a glare at his thoroughly entertained houseguest. 

“Naw, more like you’re too picky for your own good,” Hobbs deflected, cool as a cucumber. “Saw you didn’t finish your alfredo at lunch; thought you might like something a little more highbrow,” he said with a small wave towards the meal in a bottle. 

“And you think _this_ fits the bill?” Shaw asked, brows as high as they were skeptical. 

“Uh, if the quality matches the price tag? **Definitely**.” _That_, almost surprisingly, seemed to get the grouch’s attention. Evidenced by the way he stopped glaring at _him_ in favor of once again glaring at the proffered dinner in a bottle. 

“Not hungry,” the two words the spy eventually decided on, eyebrows this time coming down to match his perturbed frown. 

“Well, how ‘bout thirsty?” Asked the guy starting to think Shaw was just being contrary on principal. 

“Had tea.”

Yep, **definitely** being difficult, Hobbs thought with a roll of his eyes.  
“I _know_ you ‘had tea’ but that’s not gonna help you swallow these bad boys _now_, is it?” He reasoned, displaying the patience of a saint with the way his face didn’t change color even one shade. 

“Tch, whatever,” the probably too ‘knackered’ to argue Brit scoffed, “crack it open then. But,” he went on, a note of warning on his drained voice, “if it’s as bad as it looks, you’ll be wearin’ the rest on _you’re_ ugly mug.“ 

Hobbs barely suppressed a chortle at the look of petty seriousness staring him down. Knowing full well that if this had been any other day- if the circumstances had been any more favorable, he’d have had some choice words of his own to offer in response.  
But as it was, he just smirked bigger, picked up the bottle, and did what his frenemy had virtually _asked_ him to. Which, when he thought about it, was some **major** improvement over their usual, mannerless repartee. 

Then, safety seal seen to, Hobbs set the newly lidless thing down and grabbed the cereal box. Extracting and setting aside the practically untouched bag of food before fishing around for the appropriate pill bottle. Flashing a triumphant smile when he produced the right one on the first try. 

“Gimme both,” the words that interrupted his careful doling out of the medication. 

“Calling it a night early, huh?” Hobbs asked, not quite able to squash the disbelieving double take from his voice. After all, it was smack dab in the middle of most folks’ dinner time. 

“Wasn’t kidding when I said I was bloody knackered,” the spy explained, pinching the bridge of his nose for good measure. 

“Well, I’m all for taking time for rest and recuperation,” the bodybuilder said as he fished out the second bottle, popping a pill from that one as well when the spy said nothing to renege his decision.  
“Oh, and a little something to wash ‘em down with,” he said, sliding the chilled bottle closer to the spy’s good hand before offering up the man’s meds. 

“Extortionist,” a sour faced Deck accused. A moment before snatching up the liquid meal and using his mouthful to help the pills go down easy. 

Once he’d definitely finished with that, Hobbs piped up with his objection to the unflattering designation.  
“An extortionist needs to actually _get_ something out of it, otherwise the word doesn’t apply.”

“Oh, you’re gettin’ _plenty_ out of this,” insisted the Brit as he took a second, potentially longer swig from his drink. “Bloody sadist.” 

“That’s even _farther_ from accurate,” defended the man who didn’t know what was going on in that twisted head of Deck’s. 

“Really? ‘Cause from where _I’m_ sitting, you seem to be enjoying yourself **plenty**,” insisted the man bringing the bottle back to his lips for a third time. 

“Uh, I’m ‘_enjoying_’ watching you **take care** of yourself,” Hobbs corrected. Mouth snapping shut when the blurted words registered with his ever so slightly flustered brain. 

He almost squeezed his eyes shut out of pure mortification when the words registered with Shaw’s brain too.  
After all, the way the guy’s face went completely blank as he forced down his most recent, peach flavored mouthful? The way he set the bottle down and pushed it away, movements almost mechanical and shoulders suddenly board stiff? Hobbs’d definitely put his foot in it this time. And he couldn’t even _begin_ to imagine what his host was going to do about it. 

“Not _quite_ bad as it looks,” Shaw informed with a gesture at the partially drunk meal. “Your lucky day,” he added as he shot his guest a begrudging, slantwise glance. For some completely unknowable reason seeming to have decided to show Hobbs mercy and pretend he hadn’t just heard one of the weirdest things that could possibly have come out of the American’s mouth. 

Hobbs practically sagged in relief, completely at a loss as to what he would have done if the Brit had confronted him about the unconscious slip-up.  
“You at least gonna _finish_ it?” He asked, accidentally overcompensating for his residual self-consciousness with more bravado than the question deserved. 

“Night, Hobbs,” the spy’s only response as he pushed himself from his seat, casually walking around the opposite, _longer_ side of the island as he made his way for the exit. 

“G’night, Deck,” the tourist practically whispered at the steadily departing back. Giving his face a good, hard, _embarrassed_ scrub soon as the Brit was out of earshot. 

Hearing the bedroom door shut, Hobbs was jarred from his self-pity well enough to slip out his phone and shoot a quick, ‘Took his meds. He’s down for the night.’ to the Shaw he _hadn’t_ just ruined his reputation in front of. 

‘Good.’ The only reply he had a feeling he‘d be getting. 

With a sigh, the live-in frenemy decided to give the positive side a good looking over. Like the fact that Deck’d at least gotten himself to his room under his own power that night. Seeing as he didn’t have Hattie around that time to help if it had gone otherwise. 

Hobbs let himself crack a small smile at the thought and set about tidying the Brit’s leftovers from the island table. Recapping the meal replacement and re-hiding the meds under their bag of cereal before putting both food related items back where they belonged. 

Then, when his stomach rumbled, the detective reopened the fridge, intent on rustling up a little food. Musing that he could have himself a nice, well earned break and camp out in the living room for a relaxing TV dinner.  
That is, until Hattie’s warning against ‘turning on the telly’ replayed in the part of his mind that remembered boring, important stuff. 

Maybe it’d be okay if he just steered clear of any news channels?  
Nah, he thought with a small, defeated groan, he didn’t know how TV worked in the UK. Besides, he had a feeling Hattie’d find out if he disregarded her polite... instructions. 

Better safe than sorry, he thought as he pulled what he wanted from the fridge. Shaking his head at the less than stellar way his perfectly good evening was turning out. 

At least he still had the boring old newspaper to flip through.  
And someone else’s laundry to fold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa, Shaw _choosing_ to go to sleep early? He really must be tired after their fun day out. Good thing he’s got a frenemy there to enjoy watching him take care of himself!


End file.
